


Legendary

by thealphagate_archivist



Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: Action/Adventure, Adult Content, Angst, Drama, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-02-13
Updated: 2007-02-15
Packaged: 2019-02-01 22:11:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 128,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12713859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thealphagate_archivist/pseuds/thealphagate_archivist
Summary: It's just an ordinary day, until suddenly it isn't and somethings will never be the same.





	1. Part 1. Everyday Hero

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the archivists: this story was originally archived at [The Alpha Gate](https://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Alpha_Gate), a Stargate SG-1 archive, which began migration to the AO3 in 2017 when its hosting software, eFiction, was no longer receiving support. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in November 2017. We e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are this creator and it hasn't transferred to your AO3 account, please contact us using the e-mail address on [The Alpha Gate collection profile](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/thealphagate).

  
Author's notes: Legendary, a novel in 6 parts, was originally posted on Heliopolis. It generated a number of comments, several about an error in the logical flow of the ending. I appreciated those comments and, after some thought, rewrote the ending. The rest of this novel is the same, but the last part has changed! 

Part I. Jack makes a choice and pays the price  


* * *

**Part I: Everyday Hero  
**  
by Abby Eddey  
  
 _ **Chapter 1. Everyday Hero**_

It had been a good day. ‘A great day!’ Jack decided as he shoved his heavy pack across the front seat and climbed into the cab of his pickup. He smiled as he watched a young mom and dad bundle three little girls into their car. ‘That brings back memories,’ he thought. His warm smile suddenly dimmed, as he warned himself. ‘Don’t go there. It’s been too good a day.’  
  
Jack turned the key. The truck rumbled to life. The sun was already touching the peaks as he eased in the clutch. Jack followed the family out of the parking lot, driving away from one of the loveliest spots in Colorado. For all the hiking Jack O’Neill did professionally, somehow he never tired of it. He didn’t feel normal, didn’t feel quite right, unless he spent at least one weekend a month in the Gunnison National Forest, or maybe another of the many public wilderness areas within easy reach of Colorado Springs.  
  
This had been the weekend. He’d enjoyed it to the max, bringing his ultra-light rod and absolutely nothing to read. Now, tired and completely relaxed, he headed home with the throng that empties out of public lands late on Sundays. Traffic ran at first like a swift-moving stream. It would grow to a full-fledged river as mountain roads converged into freeways feeding back to the Denver/Boulder sprawl.  
  
Jack flicked on his headlights and windshield wipers. A light rain had started. He slowed to leave room between his truck and the bright blue Saturn sedan ahead. He could see three little heads through the back window. The girls were bouncing and chattering.  
  
Lights shining his rearview mirror made him notice a four-wheel-drive ‘panzerkampfwagen’ tight on his tail, trying to inspire him to move it along faster by hanging on his rear bumper. ‘Some weekend warrior in a rush,’ Jack decided, resisting the urge to tap the brakes to get the guy to back off. ‘Too slick, besides, the guy probably has a phone in his ear and his eyes everywhere but on the road.’ Instead, Jack reached up to adjust the mirror to get the glare out of his eyes. At that moment, somebody up ahead made a mistake.  
  
Was it road rage, a drunk driver or some happy camper who just fell asleep? Jack would never know. All he knew was that cars ahead were suddenly reacting like balls on a billiard table. He tried to drive through, tried to save himself, but in a fraction of a second, he was in it. The Saturn filled his windshield. He saw the girls’ profiles ahead, then almost under his front bumper. A ponytail flashed as one turned to gaze up into his lights.  
  
Jack made a choice.  
  
He jammed his brakes. His truck lurched as the guy tailgating struck it’s rear-end. Jack spun the wheel hard. Then -- nothing.  
  
According to the police report, he hit a tractor-trailer head on.  
  
  
ΩΩΩ  
  
Sam Carter flipped on the television on her way to the kitchen to fix a salad for dinner. She heard the 8:00 o’clock evening news anchor lead with live coverage of a multiple-car accident. “At least one dead; Dozens injured in a massive pile-up just minutes ago on highway 9, west of Cannon City.”  
  
Sam listened to the news story, munching a piece of carrot. A reporter picked up the story at the scene. “At least 100 cars were involved in a massive accident this evening on slick mountain roads near Cannon City. Officials are blaming heavy weekend traffic, narrow roads and slippery conditions for turning what could have started as a fender-bender into one of the worst accidents in Colorado history. One man is confirmed dead. Another man reported alive, but in critical condition, is trapped in his vehicle. Dozens of other motorists are injured.”  
  
Sam picked up a half a carrot. She walked around the corner to watch. The eager local reporter oozed intensely.  
  
“The driver of a westbound tractor-trailer was killed when he swerved, apparently trying to avoid hitting an eastbound pickup truck head-on. The pickup had crossed the center lane into oncoming traffic. The tractor-trailer driver lost control and plunged off this narrow road down the steep mountainside. Officials have not released his name. Meanwhile, Cannon City firefighters and paramedics are working furiously to free the driver trapped in the crushed pickup. State police have just arrived on the scene. As you can see, the scene here is chaotic, dozens of injured …”  
  
Sam picked up the remote control. She lowered the sound to a murmur, but continued to watch the scene unfold. Firemen and paramedics swarmed over the remains of a dark green truck. Cutting torches flared. Sparks flew from an industrial saw. Several men were struggling to position a heavy pneumatic jaw that they would use to pry the twisted metal apart. Sam munched the nub of carrot. She calculated how she’d approach the logistics of such a rescue. It was an interesting theoretical problem. Then someone dragged a large gray-green internal frame backpack from the wreckage.  
  
Sam froze. With a sickening jolt she realized she knew that pack. She remembered clearly how the Colonel had proudly listed the advantages of his custom-built creation to anyone who would listen. A calm inner voice was already assessing the problem. ‘He left for the Gunnison early Friday afternoon. He’d be heading back on highway 9, eastbound, about now.’ Beneath the logic, alarm shrieked. All available data pointed toward it being Jack. Logic dissolved.  
  
“Oh, God!” Sam said aloud and sat, reaching back for a chair. She missed. She sat on the floor instead. She’d been through Cannon City with him on day-trips out to the wild areas he loved to hike and fish. “Oh, God, don’t let it be his truck.” Yet, she knew, somehow she just knew it was Jack.  
  
A moment later the phone rang. Sam turned. She stared at it. Then she stood and lifted the receiver. She tried to speak. Nothing emerged. Daniel’s voice was almost inaudible through the tinny ringing in her ears.  
  
“Sam?” Daniel hesitated and, when she didn’t speak, he continued, “you saw.”  
  
“Yeah,” she managed. “I saw. We should … I should … do something.”  
  
“I’ll be right there,” was all Daniel said. Then Carter heard the dial tone. Her knees felt strange. The ringing in her ears grew louder. In the field, Sam was prepared for injuries, even sudden death, but not in her living room, not during dinner, not Jack O’Neill.  
  
Tears surged up from down deep, from that black place inside where she’d forced all her childhood anguish: dread of the day Dad would not come home; anger when Mom, who’d always been there, had suddenly been taken. There was no way to rebuild the dam, no way to force back a lifetime of suppressed mourning. So Sam pressed her wet face into her hands and wept fiercely, for Jack, for her parents, for herself. She shook with the sheer force of it, until the tears finally ran out.  
  
Sam was sitting on the arm of the couch, head in her hands when Daniel let himself in the front door. “Sam?” he called. “I’m here.” She heard him walk up. She felt his hand on her back. She turned her head into his hip. “Don’t let it be his truck,” she ordered, as if Daniel somehow had control over this thing.  
  
A moment later, Daniel’s beeper buzzed. She heard him cross the room. He dialed her phone, asked for General Hammond and said simply, “Yeah, we saw. You told Teal’c? Okay. Yeah, I’m at Sam’s. Okay. See you soon. Okay.” Then he hung up. Daniel turned to her.  
  
“Sam, that was General Hammond. He’s on his way over with Teal’c. SGC placed a call to the scene. It’s Jack’s plates. They are sending people to Mercy Hospital in Cannon City. We’re going over there.”  
  
She looked up at Daniel and said, “Right. I’ll just be a minute.” Then she walked to the bathroom, washed her face, ran her wet fingers back through her hair, blew her nose and reached for a bottle of aspirin. She popped a couple, followed by a handful of water from the faucet. Then she washed her hands and face a second time with cool water, willing the aspirin to work. She was ready.  
  
“Let’s go,” she called out as she heard a car pull up outside the house. She was at the door, before Teal’c could ring the bell.  
  
  
ΩΩΩ  
  
Jack tried not to breathe too deeply. He squinted into flashing red and blue lights. A rain of glass and sparks showered down. He knew in a confused way that they were trying to help. There was screaming as they sheared through something, maybe a door, maybe the roof. He couldn’t seem to focus enough to figure it out, not that he really gave a damn.  
  
The broken seatbelt dangled before his eyes. The airbag had deflated. He didn’t remember it going off, didn’t remember anything except a ponytail flashing past.  
  
An arm in a black and yellow striped coat sleeve reached into the cab. It lowered a neck collar. Another sleeve followed. He heard a voice say, “Okay buddy this is going to hurt a bit.” The arms slipped the collar in place. They began to lift, Jack stifled a quip. It might have come out as a curse as he blacked out.  
  
When Jack opened his eyes he heard a soft voice beside him. It was an old man’s voice, dry and soft as last year’s leaves. Jack heard him murmur, “Life everlasting.” He knew it was a priest. Someone was dying, a Catholic from the sound of it. He felt death’s cool whisper in his own ear, as the old voice continued quickly, solemnly dispensing forgiveness and the eternal salvation of the seventh, final, sacrament of the Catholic religion, offering the blessing before it was too late.  
  
Jack heard the word “salvation …” He closed his eyes, in deference to what was happening almost on top of him as well as from the physical exhaustion that inevitably follows shock, injury and pain. Jack knew the next words would be the Latin incantation, ‘and of the Holy Ghost, Amen.’ He waited for it… ‘Et Spiritus Sanctus, Amen.’ Except … the words didn’t come. The priest’s voice continued, “service to a higher cause…”  
  
‘What’s he saying?’ O’Neill could almost catch the words… “Preserve a worthy life” … “Battle to save …” Jack froze. He realized it wasn’t the Last Rites. The old man wasn’t a priest. Jack opened his eyes and gazed into ancient gray eyes, the eyes of an old, old man. Then, ever so softly, the eyes glowed.  
  
  
ΩΩΩ  
  
General Hammond cursed sourly under his breath as he realized anyone with a friend or family member near Cannon City was on the way to the hospital there. Taillights glowed like an endless trail of embers in the wet night. He glanced at the speedometer. He cursed again under his breath, 20 miles per hour. At this rate they wouldn’t reach Cannon City before morning. He should have taken a chopper.  
  
Hammond glanced in the rearview mirror. He could see Major Carter’s face. It was tinged red by the lights ahead of them. She looked like hell. Daniel Jackson was bleary-eyed too. He was holding Sam’s hand firmly, George was pretty certain from the protective looks Daniel conferred on the Major every few moments. Teal’c sat stoically at the General’s side. He hadn’t spoken since he’d received the news.  
  
Hammond decided that, sometimes, military rank deserves its privileges. He flicked a switch on the dashboard, activating a red bubble light on the roof of the motor pool sedan. A siren growled and wound up to a high-pitched howl. The cars ahead of him parted slowly, allowing him to edge through. He smiled as the speedometer rose to 30 mph and then to 45 mph. Cars parted farther ahead, opening a clear road for the car with the siren and light. Hammond muttered to himself, ‘damn right you better pull over,” and pressed the gas pedal to the floor.  
  
Even so, they reached Mercy Hospital far too late. After the General’s earnest verbal assurances, and then written proof faxed from the SGC that these people were, indeed, O’Neill’s next of kin, the hospital Chaplin finally conveyed the sad news. Jonathan O’Neill had not survived his injuries. Sam Carter took the news like a professional. Daniel Jackson had hugged himself and leaned on a wall, chin on his chest and sobbed. Teal’c had walked over and placed a hand on Daniel’s quaking shoulder. To Hammond’s surprise, the Jaffa wept, too.  
  
The General stood and stared at the Chaplin for a moment. He was not ready to believe. He asked, “Who do I see about the arrangements?” Then he turned to Major Carter and said, “Will you look after them?” nodding toward Daniel and Teal’c.  
  
Carter nodded, her eyes brimming, but already stepping up to her responsibilities as leader of SG-1. “She does Jack O’Neill proud,” George thought. Then he walked down the silent hall alone to do what he had to do.  
  
  
ΩΩΩ  
  
Jack felt, more than saw, the light. Corpuscles danced, a riot of red within his closed eyelids. “Still alive then,” he decided. He lifted his lids ever so slightly. A crescent of white light streamed through his lashes. There was no pain, no sound. The ancient voice was gone. Then he remembered the old eyes. ‘They’d glowed.’  
  
Jack tried to lift his head. Something seemed to hold him down. He tested his arms and legs. No go. He willed his eyes to open. “God,” he muttered, squinting into the searing brilliance.  
  
A watcher glanced up at the muffled sound coming from the sarcophagus, stood and quickly left the room. Too late Jack heard the sound of footsteps, the closing of a door. He bellowed, “Hey! Where the heck am I?” There was no answer.  
  
The watcher was already moving down a corridor toward an unadorned wooden door. She rapped on the door. A voice responded. The watcher spoke, just loud enough to be heard. “He’s awake. He’s asking questions.”  
  
The voice came back to her, “Good. Leave him alone. Tell him nothing. I will deal with him soon.” The watcher bowed respectfully to the closed door, turned on her heel and returned the way she’d come.  
  
  
ΩΩΩ  
  
“Gone! What in thundering blue blazes do you mean, ‘Gone’?” the General roared. The Mercy Hospital Administrator swallowed hard, licked his lips nervously and searched for words to calm the furious General, whose nose was less than an inch from his own. Unable to think of anything adequate, the man sat down instead.  
  
Fierce blue eyes glared down at him. The Administrator licked his lips again. He cleared his throat softly. “Please, General. If you will just take a seat, I will explain.”  
  
General Hammond did not sit. Instead, he glowered across the desk and growled. “Sir, you will produce the body of Colonel O’Neill, immediately. Make no mistake about it. This is a matter of national security. In less time than it takes to print your resume, I can have the White House on this phone,” the General picked up the Administrator’s telephone and then slammed it back to the desk, “to verify that fact!”  
  
The Administrator bit his quivering lower lip. He wondered briefly whether Generals carry pistols under their uniform jackets. Then he tried again. “Our records indicate that the body of Colonel O’Neill has already been claimed, General Hammond, by…” the man glanced at his paperwork so as not to make any mistake about it, “by his father, Sergeant Major Jonathan O’Neill. General Hammond, I met the man myself. He was very elderly, very polite, a retired military gentleman.” The Administrator risked a glance up at the silent General. He was rewarded by a look of profound confusion on General Hammond’s face. Encouraged, the Administrator continued primly. “So, General, you see the proper next of kin have already made arrangements. The Colonel’s body is no longer here.”  
  
The Administrator smiled a small, slightly superior smile at the confusion of the grief-stricken General. Clearly the man was overwrought. The smile vanished as General George Hammond leaned into the Administrator’s face. He whispered, “Sir, Sergeant Major O’Neill died in the Korean Conflict.”  
  
The hospital gave complete cooperation in the investigation that followed, under the powers of National Security all files were flung wide, all data provided without limitation or condition. The unfortunate Administrator spent another uncomfortable hour with a military sketch artist, while General Hammond fumed in the background. Carter and her team accessed the hospital computers. Daniel Jackson interviewed anyone who worked on Jack, from paramedics and firefighters to the hospital medical staff. Then Daniel moved on to question anyone who might have encountered him, including the late-night cleaning staff, who were held long past quitting time while they waited their turns.  
  
After twelve hours, General Hammond sighed, sipped his tenth cup of coffee from a Styrofoam cup, and wondered. ‘What has become of Jack O’Neill?’ Everything had seemed horribly routine to the General, who’d made more trips to morgues – military and civilian -- in his career than he cared to recall. The Chaplin had shown the General to the basement where Mercy Hospital housed its dead. After several long minutes of waiting to provide official identification and formally claim Jack’s body, the General was informed that they couldn’t seem to find the body.  
  
Now, sitting alone in the Administrator’s office, Hammond wondered why. ‘Could this be an abduction … or possibly murder?’ Could the NID have staged all this as a cover to finally get hold of Jack O’Neill, alive or dead, for some bizarre and highly covert reason?  
  
‘God knows they’ve tried everything else,’ thought Hammond, rubbing his aching head. Or maybe it was the act of a foreign power, somehow aware of the SGC, or trying to gain restricted information on the ‘Deep Space Telemetry’ program to which O’Neill was officially assigned. ‘Then, why nab O’Neill instead of Sam Carter?’ It made no sense. All Hammond knew for sure was that his 2IC was missing, presumed dead.  
  
In another hour, the SGC personnel had sucked all possible information from Mercy Hospital. Just before noon, General Hammond withdrew his occupying force. He left behind puzzled medical staff, a relieved Administrator and one old priest with gray eyes and a voice as dry and soft as last year’s leaves.  
  
  
 _ **Chapter 2. Living Legends**_  
  
Colonel Jack O’Neill, 1823976,” Jack responded, his eyes closed against the glare.  
  
The voice said sweetly, “We already know that Colonel O’Neill. You aren’t answering any of my questions.”  
  
O’Neill didn’t respond. He just waited for … something.  
  
His captors hadn’t hurt him, at least not yet. In fact, he seemed in pretty good repair for a guy recently dragged unconscious out of a crushed pickup truck. There’d been no drugs, no threats, not even harsh language. He wasn’t deprived of food or sleep, unlike other times; times he decided not to dwell on just now. In fact his captors even allowed him privacy. That is, assuming he wasn’t under surveillance, which he didn’t assume, not for a moment. Three meals a day were slipped through a narrow passage in one wall, a passage far too narrow to offer any chance of escape.  
  
He was free to move about a small area delimited by solid stone on three sides and, on the fourth, bars of slender silver crystals reaching from floor to ceiling. He examined the walls. Jack found no signs of a door. He focused on the crystal bars. Despite their delicate appearance the crystals were strong, as unbending as any prison bars O’Neill had tested in his long experience in jails from Tijuana to Tajikistan.  
  
They reminded him of Tok’Ra technology. ‘Sweet, and me without my small square green crystal, or was it the long triangular purple one?’ O’Neill hated things he couldn’t understand. He’d never understood anything Tok’Ra, not Tok’Ra morality, not their tactics or their manipulative, secretive nature. ‘Sure as hell not Tok’Ra crystal technology.’  
  
Truth be told, Jack was getting bored with the whole routine. Well, almost. What held his attention was the simple fact that he’d been interrogated before, by experts and by amateurs. Experience told him the kid gloves come off sooner or later. Until then, until they forced him, he’d give name, rank and serial number, nothing more. He’d hope that SGC would find him before he had to endure more persuasive measures than boredom, bright lights and a pleasant female voice.  
  
The interrogator continued, “What I asked, Colonel, is what exactly a man of your qualifications does at Cheyenne Mountain. Face it, Jack,” her voice smirked as she spoke, “your high school grades and … interesting … higher education don’t exactly qualify you as a top candidate for…” she rustled some papers and continued laughing lightly, “Deep Space Telemetry.”  
  
Jack felt his face flush. She’d just asked the same question he raised when the Air Force had told him his cover story. It was a question he asked himself too often, usually when SGC grappled with issues of time and space and all that other stuff. He glared into the lights and answered, “Colonel Jack O’Neill, serial number 1823976.”  
  
The voice ignored him. She continued on conversationally, “I mean really Colonel! It’s not as if you are actually out there! Now, if you were out there, I’d say sure, a man of your talents would have plenty to do,” she laughed, “but as things stand. Well, you must be so bored!”  
  
Jack stared into the light, not speaking, his mind racing. Clearly, they knew something. This joking around about being ‘out there’ was just the start of it. So, he remained silent and, wearing his best poker face, waited for the rest.  
  
“And, what exactly does an archeologist do at Cheyenne Mountain? Unless someone is broadcasting radio signals in hieroglyphics, I have trouble understanding Doctor Daniel Jackson’s role in ‘deep space telemetry’. I’m not mistaken, am I? He does carpool with you, Colonel. Correct?”  
  
Jack closed his eyes against the light. The woman’s voice was no longer pleasant. Her tone hadn’t changed, but her information was right on target, so precisely correct that he felt a fierce headache begin to gnaw the base of his skull and then crawl up to his temples. ‘If she knows about Daniel, a man dead to the rest of the world, what else does she know? And, how in hell did she find out?’ Jack pinched the bridge of his nose, where the pain was splintering between his eyes. Then he rubbed a hand across his forehead.  
  
The interrogator spoke seriously then. “You need rest, Colonel. You are still recovering from your accident. We’ll continue tomorrow. After you have something to eat, perhaps you’ll feel better. Goodnight.” Jack heard the scrape of chair legs on stone as she rose. He heard clipped footsteps as she walked across the room to a door he never could see through the lights. After a few moments, the brilliant light faded to a muted gray, too soft to see into the corners of the prison, but by then he was alone anyway.  
  
  
ΩΩΩ  
  
Daniel stood at the head of the conference table and fiddled with the overhead projector. He placed the overhead transparency several ways before he got it oriented properly. He hadn’t bothered to load the images for his briefing into the SGC computer system. So, he couldn’t use the computer-driven audio-visual displays that Sam preferred for her briefings. He told himself there wasn’t time. In fact, Daniel had an unreasonable fear that, by preserving those images in the mainframe, he might trigger a series of events that could end by making Jack’s death official.  
  
Having arranged it to his satisfaction, Daniel cleared his throat softly and began. “Here is a composite from the paramedics and firemen who pulled Jack out of the wreck.” He fiddled with the sketch, adjusting it slightly. It showed a white male, forty-ish, with Jack O’Neill’s general appearance – haircut, nose and mouth, dark eyes. “It seems likely that Jack is the person they pulled out of his pickup.”  
  
Daniel flipped up another transparency and continued. “Here’s what we came up with from the ER staff. As you can see – it’s Jack, or a close double.” There was little doubt it was Jack O’Neill. The scar across his left eyebrow was perfectly clear on the sketch. “So, he made it to the ER.”  
  
Daniel placed the next sketch on the projector and swallowed. It showed a man with extensive injuries. It was hard to look at that man, even in a sketch. So, Daniel moved on without comment, flipping up the next transparency. “Here’s the final composite. It’s from the ICU staff. As you can see, it’s hard to be sure here that it’s Jack O’Neill. So, maybe somewhere between the ER and ICU …” Daniel’s voice trailed off. What could he say? There’d been a switch?  
  
After a long moment of silence, General Hammond spoke. “Thank you Doctor Jackson. Comments people?”  
  
Carter spoke first. “General, the hospital records show that the man in that last sketch received transfusions. The blood type on record matches the Colonel’s.”  
  
Daniel leaned forward and blurted, “You mean AB positive? Sam, half the population has that blood type!”  
Sam nodded. She continued softly. “I know Daniel. I’m just saying that we don’t have any indication that it wasn’t the Colonel.”  
  
Teal’c spoke next, “Could we not check the materials used to treat O’Neill for his DNA?”  
  
Sam nodded immediately, “Yeah. We thought of that too, Teal’c. The problem is that the hospital discards medical waste almost constantly. By the time we arrived, it was too late. It was already gone.”  
  
Daniel rubbed his hand through his hair. He pushed his glasses back up his nose. “Besides, that’s all irrelevant. We are wasting valuable time debating whether or not Jack is the missing man. The fact is – he’s missing. We need to focus on finding him, before it’s too late.”  
  
Hammond nodded and spoke softly, “He might be dead, Doctor.”  
  
“So what?” Daniel exploded, “you don’t think he’d give up on any one of us if there was even a chance! So let’s get past this question of who went missing. We need to focus on the real issue – where is Jack O’Neill! Who would abduct him?”  
  
Hammond nodded again. He said, “I see your point Doctor. Let’s not get our hopes up. It seems pretty clear that Colonel O’Neill was in that wreck, was in the Mercy Hospital ER and, from the sketches you just presented Doctor, was in … bad shape.”  
  
Daniel began to speak, but the General silenced him with a raised hand. The General continued, “and that’s important, Doctor Jackson, because people who might abduct the Colonel alive might be very different people, with a very different agenda, from those who would steal a body after he’d … died.”  
  
Hammond closed his eyes for a moment. ‘There,’ he thought, ‘I’ve said it. SG-1 will have to come to grips with the possibility that Colonel Jack O’Neill just died in a lousy, useless, meaningless traffic accident.’  
  
When the General opened his eyes, he saw the others looking at him, waiting. “So, people,” he continued, “here’s the plan. Major Carter, you will work with Doctor Fraiser and her staff to determine whether the Colonel’s injuries would have been … terminal. Doctor Jackson, you will take a different approach. I want you and Teal’c to investigate the possibility that someone has, in fact, abducted the Colonel, alive. I suggest you start with our old friends at NID. Anything I can do to smooth the way with them, Son, you just ask. Dismissed.”  
  
  
ΩΩΩ  
  
Under other circumstances, O’Neill wouldn’t have risked it. The manuals, training, first-hand experience – it all told him not to do it, not to open up to his captors by asking them anything. Asking questions established a relationship between captive and captor. Questions revealed as much, or more, than they enlightened, telling those in control what a subject worried about, what he wanted, what he needed, in other words told them precisely how to manipulate him. Dangerous. Everything he’d ever learned on the subject of resisting interrogation told Jack O’Neill to stick to the impersonal, highly formalized ‘name, rank, serial number’ routine. Every step away from that protective shield made him even more vulnerable.  
  
The information his interrogator had revealed by her questions was just too damned accurate. It indicated a serious leak in the SGC, or maybe even higher in the military. Her knowledge of personal information, her mocking review of his cover story, it all pointed to a dangerous security breach, a breach that had to be plugged. And, to plug it, he had to find it. To find it, he needed information. To get information, he would have to ask questions, interact, open up. He’d face the fallout when it came.  
  
Jack had reached his decision toward the end of a sleepless night. Then, he simply stretched out on his bunk and waited for the lights to brighten. It would happen suddenly, followed by the click of feminine footsteps, just as it had for the past five days. He was right, mostly. Only, after the lights brightened, the footsteps were the soft shuffle of a man’s steps, a man who called out, “Good morning, Colonel O’Neill,” as Jack stood to face his interrogator. The voice continued, “I understand you haven’t been answering our questions, Colonel, admirable, but … inconvenient. I’m sure you understand that fact.”  
  
Jack suppressed a shiver. ‘So, today the gloves come off,’ he thought grimly. He stared into the lights, toward the voice and waited. He willed himself to remain relaxed, to look unprepared for the meaty hands. They would grab him any instant. If he seemed unready when they came for him, maybe in that moment, before they overpowered him, he could do something. If not? Well he’d been through the rest of it before.  
  
The man behind the lights spoke again. “So, Colonel, I am here to offer you a choice. You may stay, or you may go.”  
  
“Excuse me?” Jack blurted before he realized he’d spoken aloud, “Did you say ‘go’?”  
  
“Yes, Colonel. It is a choice you may make now.”  
  
“And, if I choose to go?” Jack asked the question very slowly, biding for time to think through the possible strategy behind this unexpected offer.  
  
“Then, we return you to Cannon City, Colorado.” The voice answered reasonably.  
  
“And, if I stay?”  
  
“Then you shall see our faces and … understand. The choice is yours Colonel. Please make it now.”  
  
“If I can just walk out of here, why did you do this?” Jack asked.  
  
“Choose to stay and all will be made clear to you,” the voice replied as Jack heard the man stand, push back his chair and walk across the room. Then the door closed. The lights dimmed.  
  
Jack stood a moment. He paced the length of the small room twice, three times. Finally, he flopped onto the bed. ‘What is this?’ he wondered. Why would they take him prisoner, hold him without hurting him, heal him – apparently – only to let him choose to walk away?’  
  
‘They know I won’t go,’ Jack decided finally. ‘The questions they asked me weren’t questions at all,’ he realized. He knew then that he’d been played by experts, set up to choose exactly what his captors wanted him to do of his own free will. ‘They just wanted me to know that they know. But why? Who the hell are these people? How did they penetrate SGC?’  
  
By the time the footsteps returned, Jack knew he had no choice at all. As he heard the man and woman walk into the room, he swung his long legs over the edge of the bed and sat up. Before they could speak, he cut to the heart of the matter. “Fine, okay, yeah. You’ve got my attention. If I stay, what’s the deal?”  
  
“Deal?” said the man.  
  
“Yeah. Like how long am I expected to cooperate with you people? What do you want from me? What’s this all about? What’s the deal?”  
  
“After you agree to stay, all will be clear, Colonel. Consider this. We have not hurt you. You have been well treated, cared for. We even saved your life. Do you remember?”  
Jack slouched on the bed and rubbed his head. “Yeah, as a matter of fact I do. I also remember an old guy whose eyes glowed. If you want my cooperation, or my trust, that’s not the way to get it.”  
  
“It should be clear to you that we know about your work, Colonel. If you stay, you will learn how we know. I promise, you will not be harmed. You won’t be asked to do anything you would not otherwise do in your service to your country. Those who you care about will be protected, if you stay.”  
  
“And, if I choose to go?” Jack asked, knowing the answer.  
  
“Then, I make no promises,” said the voice softly.  
  
Jack squinted into the light. He wanted to leave. The memory of the old man’s glowing eyes left him certain he was being held by a group of either Goa’uld or Tok'Ra. ‘Let it be the damned Tok’Ra,’ he urged the Fates. Still, even if they were Tok’Ra, they must be a renegade group to pull a stunt like this; otherwise they’d have come directly to SGC.  
  
“And if they aren’t Tok’Ra? Well, then they’re Goa’uld and I’m being invited to help them. And, isn’t that special?’ Jack thought bitterly, but the memory of those eyes said he couldn’t walk away. By some stroke of luck – ‘bad luck’– he was in their midst. He had to just go with it and see where it led.  
  
“Yeah, okay,” he said. The lights dimmed. Jack saw two shadows as he continued. “I’ll stay, for a while. Now, what’s this all …” The shadows took shape. Suddenly whatever he had been about to say seemed irrelevant as the faces before him became visible. Jack felt like he’d been hit in the chest with a mortar round, stopped mid-sentence and stared.  
  
The young man spoke. “Colonel O’Neill, I know this is a … surprise, a pleasant one I hope. I assure you, Colonel, as God is my witness; I am the man you think I am.” The old woman simply smiled.  
  
Jack stood slowly, mouth still open, staring at the man and woman before him. Then he collected himself, squared his shoulders, deliberately raised his hand in a formal salute and held it. Only after the man returned the salute did Jack drop his hand from his brow. He remained at attention.  
  
The man stepped up to him and stuck out his hand, reaching between the bars that separated them. “I’m glad you decided to stay, Colonel.” Jack hesitated. Then he took the outstretched hand in a firm grip and said, “Yes, Mr. President. So am I.” Then, he turned to the old woman beside the young President and said, “Mrs. Kennedy.”  
  
  
ΩΩΩ  
  
Daniel Jackson leaned over the file before him with dogged determination. He rubbed his eyes. He struggled to focus on the photocopies. The originals must have been faded mimeographed pages of a typed original, circa 1950s or early 1960s. Daniel’s eyes were heavy, gritty with fatigue and the dust that somehow always accompanied government records. He didn’t stop. The thought never entered his mind. Jack was in trouble.  
  
There had to be a lead somewhere in the boxes of NID files stacked in his office, or in the dozens more in the hall outside his door. He’d be damned if he’d quit searching for it just because he was a little tired. At Daniels’ request, the General had directed the base attorneys to subpoena all NID files on Colonel Jack O’Neill, the Star Gate program and anything mentioning Cannon City, Colorado.  
  
Daniel wasn’t surprised to see the mountain of files on Jack and the Star Gate. A glance through each box indicated that they were pretty much repeats of the SGC files. He’d written many himself, but the SGC attorneys saw this as an opportunity of sorts, Daniel realized.  
  
Jack’s disappearance provided an official sanction for the US military to riffle the files of their major competitor within the US military/ intelligence system. So, it wasn’t surprising that the Air Force attorneys had requested far more files than Daniel needed, or wanted, or could look through in a year – or ten years. Still, his work in archeology helped him appreciate their thoroughness. Data is data. God-knows what he’d discover in the boxes if he could just … keep … reading.  
  
Daniel’s eyes fluttered as he leaned against his hand. Still, he kept scanning pages, looking, looking for … something. Daniel never felt his head slip off his palm, slide down his forearm and settle against his bicep. He was asleep before his head reached the desk.  
  
Hours later the sound of the SGC cleaning crew roused him. Daniel sat up, suddenly awake, blinked and tried to focus. Something was horribly wrong. He couldn’t seem to see anything, but a dull white light. After a moment of confusion, he sighed and pulled away a sheet of paper that had stuck to his forehead. He glanced at his watch and groaned. “Three minutes to 8:00 … am. Three minutes until his briefing on progress he’d made on the NID connection. Well, it would be a short briefing. How long does it take to say ‘Zip, zero, zilch? Nada, nil, nicht, null, none, nothing?’  
  
Daniel rose to his feet, realized he was still holding the page in his hand and glanced down at the paper as he returned it to the open file. The type was almost illegible, but a word caught his eye – ‘Kennedy.’ He glanced at the file label. It was part of the document production relating to Cannon City, Colorado. He skimmed the page, intrigued by … something. Cannon City had been the location of visits by the President’s brother, Robert Kennedy, then Attorney General of the United States. The visit had, apparently, occurred just days before the tragic end of JFK’s brief Presidency. “Why?” Daniel wondered aloud, forgetting that he had a briefing. He sank back into his chair.  
  
By the time Daniel heard his name being announced through the PA system of the SGC, he knew he had … something. Although he didn’t know what exactly it was that connected the Kennedy Presidency to Cannon City Colorado to Jack O’Neill, Jackson was certain a connection existed. He was as certain as he’d ever been about anything, as certain as he’d been that there was cross-pollination between the cultures of the pyramid-builders of the Americas and Egypt.  
  
It was lucky he was so very certain because, when Daniel entered the briefing room, he realized that Sam Carter and Doctor Fraiser were also very sure of something. It was something bad. Sam was speaking. As he took his usual chair, she explained that there simply was no way Jack had survived.  
  
“After a careful review of the Colonel’s hospital records, General Hammond, it seems clear his injuries were fatal.” Sam stopped. She looked around the table, struggling to maintain composure. She did a fair job. Her emotions were betrayed only by the sheen in her blue eyes and a bright rose hue around her eyes. Janet Fraiser sat quietly beside Sam. The Doctor maintained a professional stoicism, until Sam seemed finished. Then the Doctor spoke, summarizing why they were so very certain.  
  
“Colonel O’Neill was alive when they freed him from his pickup. He was treated for shock and blood loss and transported. Records of his vital signs in the ER indicate that he was slipping. The trauma was internal. He had extensive injuries, too severe to survive, General Hammond. He was wearing his seatbelt. The airbag triggered, but colliding head-on with a tractor-trailer was just too much force. The x-rays show that he would have had … maybe an hour, maybe slightly more than an hour. No more than that. The damage was just too extensive.” Fraiser looked up from the fat file in front of her. She turned over the last page. Then she closed the file. Daniel realized she’d just completed the final entry in the extensive medical file of Colonel Jack O’Neill.  
  
No one spoke for a long moment. Daniel waited, but his mind raced. ‘Jack isn’t dead,’ he thought, ‘if I don’t do something they’ll accept that he’s gone. They’ll grieve and then move on. They’ll have to because that’s what you do when someone dies, even someone you can’t bear to lose. Except I’m certain, absolutely certain, that Jack O’Neill is alive. What can say to convince them?’ Daniel looked around the table. The faces he saw told him there was nothing he could say. It was too late.  
  
“Jack didn’t die,” Daniel said softly. He looked at Sam, Janet and the General. They gazed back at him sadly; clearly concerned he was in denial. ‘Well, yeah!’ Daniel heard O’Neill quip. Daniel smiled. “I know you think I just can’t accept it, but Jack did not die in that accident. General, until someone shows me his body, I will never believe Jack’s gone. He is out there … somewhere, Sam! And, I am going to find him. Teal’c?”  
  
Daniel looked at Teal’c, who lowered his eyes without speaking. Daniel turned to the General. Hammond gazed back, concern lining his face. General Hammond could ensure that Daniel had all the help he needed or could lock him in a padded room for however long it took to get over his delusions. Daniel swallowed. He took a breath. He was careful to sound reasonable and respectful as he continued. “With your permission, General Hammond, I’ve got to keep looking. I owe it to Jack. We owe it to Jack, don’t you think?”  
  
 _ **Chapter 3. Garðr æfre yult**_  
  
“It was Mr. Hoover,” Jackie explained. “J. Edgar, I mean, not the former President Herbert Hoover. Hoover was obsessed with conspiracies, infiltrators. He hated, feared, anyone or anything different: Catholics were in league with the Pope, Jews controlled the banks, and labor union leaders were communists. Women were … Well, Jack you get the point, I’m sure. J. Edgar Hoover was a paranoid man. As Director of the FBI, he had access to information, resources, and agents. He stirred up the whole sick mess. Of course,” she laughed lightly, “on one level he was exactly correct, but I doubt that he ever knew it. He was so busy hounding the American people in his frantic search for boogey-men that he had no energy left to deal with the real threat, the threat his kind was actually facing.”  
  
“And that was…?” O’Neill queried.  
  
“Us,” the former First Lady smiled. “He had no idea about us, other than vague notions of … conspiracies.”  
  
She paused a moment, seemingly lost in thought. Jack waited. He considered her gray hair framing her still fine features, recalled her notorious tendency to wear sunglasses in public night and day. After another moment, he asked the question.  
  
“You and the President, you’re … Tok’Ra?”  
  
Jack watched her slowly shake her head ‘no’. He noted her sweet smile, even as fear crawled up his spine. Then he asked the next, inevitable question. “So, then, what? You’re Goa’uld?”  
  
Jackie laughed, “Not exactly, Colonel. Let me tell you our story.”  
  
“We were explorers. We were seeking knowledge, friendship and a new home. Our leaders had selected a planet, not Earth, but” she shrugged, “things happen. Perhaps this was just one of those things.”  
  
“I remember every detail – the tremendous G-forces, how the ship vibrated, the scream of … maybe it was us screaming, maybe it was our ship. There should have been no sound, no sense of motion at all, certainly no vibration. When I opened my eyes, a tremendous shuddering was vibrating my entire ship. It was terrifying.”  
  
“I rose from my stasis-platform. I hit the emergency activation for the rest of those on board. Somehow I managed to reach the … you’d call it ‘the bridge’. It became clear that a giant rogue had passed close to our ship. It had pulled us slightly off course. Over a distance of … well just let’s say over a distance large enough even a slight deviation becomes significant, very, very significant. As a result of the uncharted rogue’s influence, my ship was in trouble. When I awoke we were already trapped in the gravity field of Pluto.”  
  
“My instruments told me I was too late. My ship was doomed. I looked toward the center of your solar system. The great black mass of Pluto was all I saw. I ordered firing of the… You would refer to them as ‘re-entry rockets’. They were to have been used to land the craft at our destination. All the people who depended on me were dead, if I did nothing. So, I ordered the rockets fired.”  
  
“The ship tore away from the planet. I was thrown off my feet. I pulled myself back to my feet against … unimaginable forces. An open star field stretched ahead of me, ahead of us. There … was … nothing,” she whispered, reliving the horror of it.  
  
She continued a moment later. “We were free from Pluto. We hurtled back toward open space. I knew a planet the size of Pluto must be at the edge of a star system. There must be smaller, warmer planets toward the center of its system; perhaps one would have water, perhaps habitable.”  
  
“I had no way to maneuver the ship. Our technology depends on planning and meticulous calculation. My people don’t so much fly our ships as ride them through a pre-set path. Be that as it may, I knew that we had to land. Once awoken, my family could not return to deep space. I had to turn the ship. I ordered power cut to one bank of rockets. The ship came about.”  
  
“Then I saw it, a fleck of blue, Earth. I cut power to the other rockets. I prayed there would be enough fuel left to make re-entry survivable. If not…” The old woman looked Jack in the eye. “Colonel, I know that you know how it feels to be responsible for the lives of those who follow you. I don’t have to elaborate, do I?”  
  
Jack shook his head.  
  
She continued. “Then, I’ll just say that we reached Earth. Our ship crashed in the Atlantic Ocean, near Bermuda. We fired our rockets at the last minute.” She sighed. “Some of us survived the impact. The ship is still there, Colonel. There are aspects of our technology that have caused difficulties. You are aware of the disappearances in the Bermuda Triangle.”  
  
“That’s you?” Jack asked, dumbfounded. He’d long suspected something extraterrestrial, especially since joining SGC. He was inclined to think it was the Asguard or some other powerful, benevolent race. Certainly a former FLOTUS (First Lady Of The United States) had never entered his mind as the reason for the missing planes and ships that sometimes seemed to enter a black hole in those otherwise placid waters.  
  
Jackie nodded. She said simply, “Sorry. Not many of us were left to save. Our numbers had been ten thousand, Colonel, when we departed. As I stood on the shore of that island and watched my ship sink beneath the waves, I led less than five hundred souls.” Jack blanched. He placed his hand over hers and said, “I’m sorry. How did you survive?”  
  
“To be perfectly frank,” she answered, “I’m not sure Colonel O’Neill. The first months, or maybe years, are a blur now. It was difficult, I remember, incredibly difficult. We were unprepared for your planet in every way. We suffered injury, illness, hunger. There was such loneliness, such despair at first. Thank god we didn’t come down farther north. A harsh winter would have surely finished us. In time, we adjusted, learned, and adapted. We overcame the difficulties.”  
  
“We returned to our ship and recovered some of our technology. It was absolutely necessary that we do so, of course. You’ve noticed, Colonel, that you are healed?”  
  
“Yeah, thanks,” Jack mumbled suppressing a shudder. ‘How had they healed him?’  
  
It wasn’t with a sarcophagus, that much was pretty clear. Goa’uld devices healed completely. Jack still had distinctly uncomfortable twinges. Some marvelous red scars, already beginning to pucker as they knit imperfectly, and a sunset of bruising crossed his chest and belly from solar plexus to groin -- far from perfect.  
  
“How did you heal me?” he asked.  
  
“With a healing device from our home planet. You would call it a ‘sarcophagus’.”  
  
‘Aw, crap,” Jack thought, as her eyes glowed ever so slightly above her captivating smile. He steeled himself for the rest of it, the part where she would stand, raise her hand and throw him across the room. Or knock him to his knees with a ribbon device and turn his brain to raspberry jam. He waited, watching her watch him. Nothing happened. “So, you are Goa’uld,” he finally prompted.  
  
“No, Colonel. We are not Goa’uld. It would be accurate to say, however, that the Goa’uld are us. You see we are the older race. We are the greater race. The Goa’uld are a miscalculation, a mistake.”  
  
“You people make some real pips,” Jack blurted, “but I don’t really follow you. If you aren’t Goa’uld, how can the Goa’uld be you?”  
  
Jackie smiled sadly. “We were called the ‘Garðr le yult.’ Our race was ancient before the Earth cooled. We were peaceful, curious, very like Earth’s humans. We had one major difference from you. We are a blended race.”  
  
Jack squinted and rubbed his eyes, “Geezh, I hate this stuff. I just knew this had to turn nasty.”  
  
He felt her hand on his arm. He opened his eyes unwillingly as she spoke. “Yes. It is unpleasant. Please, try to understand. It was not always so. It did not have to be so. We are a blended race. At an early age, we are paired with a symbiot…”  
  
Jack interrupted, “I would call it a ‘snake’.”  
  
“No Colonel, it’s not what you think. Unlike the Goa’uld, we pair at a very young age. We pair only with an immature symbiot, never an adult. What you think of as the host, in our case controls the larva. We use our sarcophagus not just to extend the life of the host but also to arrest development of the symbiot. Blending brings extended youth and good health. We acquire wisdom, experience joy, gain knowledge. In exchange, we share our special form of consciousness, our freedom of movement allowing the symbiot to experience creativity, exploration and learning. It is powerful and beautiful.”  
  
She stopped and gazed at him. Jack stared back. This dignified old woman was waiting for him to agree.  
  
‘But ‘yyyyyuck! It was just too Goa’uld-ish.’ O’Neill cringed. He shook his head and grimaced. “Sorry. I have always admired you Mrs. Kennedy, and the President. I really wish I believed you, agreed about this whole blending thing. I don’t want to seem narrow-minded, but I will never, ever understand how that can be anything but wrong!”  
  
“That is understandable, Colonel O’Neill, given your experiences with the Goa’uld,” she allowed graciously. “As I said, the Goa’uld are a mistake.”  
  
“Yeah, so you said. Just how did that mistake happen?” Jack asked.  
  
“Perhaps it was foreseeable. I don’t see how, but perhaps we should have known. The ‘Garðr le yult’ use the sarcophagus throughout our lives. If we do not, our larva matures. In rare instances this happened. The result was madness, then agonizing death.”  
  
“It seems possible that sometimes a victim might not die. Instead, as you’ve seen, the symbiot may take control. The result could be a Goa’uld, I suppose. You’ve had more direct experience with the results than we have, Colonel.”  
  
Jack studied her face for any sign of guilt and saw none. Regret was there. Not guilt. “Did you bring the Goa’uld to Earth with you? Are they … you?”  
  
“No; absolutely not. As I mentioned, we lived for some years without the sarcophagus. We did recover it from the ocean depths. From then on, we used it. We use it still. It saved your life. We never encountered Goa’uld, until we reached Earth. They came through the Star Gate in Egypt, just as Doctor Daniel Jackson believes. We learned of the Goa’uld from scholars of the Middle East, who came to study in our schools. We realized that there might be a way off this planet, a way back to the stars, to civilizations that might have the technology to reach our home planet or complete our voyage.”  
  
“Your schools?” Jack asked.  
  
“We were once known by your people as,” she paused, gave Jack a significant look, and then continued, “as Druids.  
  
Jack smiled and said, “Druids? Like Merlin? With the pointy hat and stars on his gown?”  
  
Jackie continued, “We could not, would not travel without the sarcophagus. There were so few of us, we were not able to travel to Egypt from the Western coast of Europe in time to access the Star Gate. Nor were we able to disperse, since we have only one sarcophagus, until travel became faster and more reliable. Instead, we settled. We established a series of religious centers, places of learning that became known as Abbeys or Monasteries distributed in a network each within a day or two walk of another.  
  
Perhaps you’ve wondered about the fascination that surrounded religious ‘relics,’ about how it began? In fact, relics that traversed Western Europe started as an excuse. They were a way for us to move the sarcophagus from one settlement to another, or in extreme cases, to move one of our people to the sarcophagus; hence, tales of raising the dead.  
  
Our organization grew. It evolved. Over time, some schools became major cultural centers. We developed into a vast economic force across Western Europe. My family spans the history of Western Europe, from prehistory to the very present.  
  
Have you never wondered about the search for the Holy Grail? Why Marco Polo set off to find the Orient? What prompted exploration of the Atlantic? Was it only the search for a shorter route to India? When Europeans discovered the so-called ‘New World’, what inspired them to seek El Dorado? Who told the first tale of a Lost City of Gold?  
  
We did. All of these ideas, we planted -- or our agents – trying to reach one of the Star Gates. In every case, we failed. We made valuable discoveries. The knowledge always came late, however, far too late. The Pharaohs of Egypt had been overthrown long before we could reach that far off land. The great empires of the Americas had already begun to crumble. They were in their death throes by the time the first European explorers found their ruins and finished them off with slavery, disease, and conversion to Christianity. The Goa’uld were long gone. The Gates had vanished.”  
  
“At a certain point, we understood this. We committed ourselves to moving your planet forward through learning and scientific investigation. It was our only path back to the stars.”  
  
  
ΩΩΩ  
  
Daniel Jackson pointed to an image on his computer screen. It showed a trim young man in a well-tailored suit holding a shovel full of soil. “That’s Bobby Kennedy, Robert F. Kennedy, Attorney General of the United States, former prosecutor,” Daniel explained to Teal’c. “He had a strange habit of visiting out-of-the-way places across America and doing good deeds. He was a tough guy, from his reputation, but also a genuinely nice guy.”  
  
Teal’c nodded, as Daniel continued.  
  
“Well, for example, there’s a wonderful story about Bobby Kennedy just turning up one day at a shack in the Appalachian mountains of West Virginia. He was alone. He drove up and asked the people who lived there what they needed most to have a better life. The man who owned the house said a new roof would be a big help. Bobby got it for him. While he was at it, he had indoor plumbing installed and then built a wastewater treatment plant for the area. Until then, the people still used an out-house.”  
  
Teal’c smiled slightly and said. “Indeed, he was a good man.”  
  
“Yes, a very good man. His brother, President John F. Kennedy, was a great man. President Kennedy jump-started this country into space exploration. He challenged us to reach the moon before the Soviet Union, a goal that seemed impossible at the time. The first man in space, Teal’c was the Russian cosmonaut Yuriy Alekseyevich Gagarin. Gagarin reached outer space on April 12, 1961. It was a tremendous blow to America. People feared Communist-domination of outer space.”  
  
“Our first astronaut in space, Alan Shepard, followed Gagarin by only a few weeks. Kennedy saw a chance to change fear into something positive. His ‘Race to the Moon’ speech challenged the United States to become more than a newly industrialized country, a country with potential but limited technological capability. He put us on the path to becoming a bona fide superpower.”  
  
“Daniel Jackson,” Teal’c said patiently, “Goa’uld brought humans from this planet into space long before …”  
  
“I know that Teal’c,” Daniel burst out impatiently, “but nobody else does. It doesn’t diminish Kennedy’s vision and sheer guts. President Kennedy lifted our eyes to the stars, Teal’c. He inspired us to reach out to try what seemed impossible!”  
  
“You admired him.” Teal’c asked.  
  
“Yeah.” Daniel smiled back. “I wasn’t born yet, Teal’c. My parents admired him. Teal’c, every young American admired President Kennedy. He was still young himself. He spoke about hope, about giving something back to Society, about ideals. He challenged us to work hard, be strong, dream great things and reach for the moon.”  
  
“When JFK was assassinated, Teal’c, it was like … I don’t know, like innocence died. Every American, every single man, woman and child old enough to understand anything at the time it happened remembers exactly where they were, exactly what they were doing at the precise moment when they heard the news. They buried him and Teal’c it must have been....” Daniel searched for the right words and then said. “It was mythic.”  
  
“Then, Bobby was killed. I think people just went numb. Some must have feared the President’s assassination had been a military coup, especially later when information came out about how far elements of the military were willing to go to stir the United States people to support a war. When Bobby died they wondered what he might have discovered. Did he know who was responsible for his brother’s murder? Did they kill him, too, because he knew? Did they kill him to keep their plans quiet?  
  
We never found out. The Warren Commission cooked up a half-baked story about a ‘lone gunman’ and left it there. The people who loved him grieved. Some continued to search for answers for … a long time. Eventually, we moved on without answers.”  
  
Daniel stopped talking suddenly realizing he could easily be talking about Jack O’Neill’s death.  
  
“I’m not letting this go, Teal’c. There is a connection between Jack’s disappearance and the Kennedy Presidency. I just have to find it.”  
  
“What have you learned so far, Daniel Jackson?” Teal’c asked.  
  
“Well, like I said, Bobby Kennedy had a habit of turning up in the strangest places. He’d visit out of the way places. This file shows that he visited Cannon City, Colorado, a week…” Daniel checked the date. “Actually, less than a week, before his brother was murdered in Texas.”  
  
“You believe there is a connection to O’Neill.” Teal’c stated.  
  
“Yes. Yes, I do. What are the chances of the two things being mere coincidence?”  
  
“I am sorry, Daniel Jackson. It seems to me the chances of the two things being mere coincidence are quite high. O’Neill traveled through Cannon City frequently. You say that Robert Kennedy had a habit of visiting small towns to do good deeds. I see no connection other than mere coincidence.” Teal’c spoke softly, but with conviction.  
  
Daniel nodded and grunted. “Yeah, you’re right.” He stared at the file fiercely, flipped a few pages. Then he saw it. An electric thrill tickled his spine. He straightened, stared at Teal’c a moment, and then pulled open his desk drawer. After rummaging through rubber bands, rulers, restaurant receipts and other junk, Daniel found the slip of paper, an automatic deposit slip for his most recent paycheck. He placed the slip next to the file and grinned.  
  
“Look at these numbers Teal’c.”  
  
“They are the same, Daniel Jackson.”  
  
Daniel looked up into his friend’s face and said it aloud. “Less than a week before JFK’s assassination, Robert Kennedy, Attorney General of the United States, traveled to Cannon City, Colorado. He paid for the trip from the same account that pays my salary.”  
  
Teal’c looked at the numbers again, smiled and said, “The Star Gate program.”  
  
Rune Tablette  
  
“It’s treason,” Jack stated bluntly, glaring at the man who’d just asked him to betray his country, a man he admired so much that he would consider almost any other request. Kennedy had just asked him to infiltrate the SGC, however, leading a force of almost three hundred, dragging their precious sarcophagus along, just for a challenge.  
  
Kennedy met Jack’s glare with a gaze that never wavered. For once, Jack O’Neill dropped his eyes first. “Sir, you are asking me to raid the SGC, take the ‘Gate from my own command, turn against my own people!”  
  
When Kennedy just continued to gaze at him, Jack shook his head and tried a different tact. “You gave your word that I wouldn’t be asked to do anything I wouldn’t normally do for my country. This is not normal, Mr. President.”  
  
“Call me Jack,” the young man smiled, “Colonel O’Neill.”  
  
“Call me Jack,” O’Neill quipped automatically. Then, he recalled some of the silly introductions he’d endured whenever Carter and Jackson got around other eggheads. ‘Doctor, Doctor, Doctor, yaddada, yaddada.’ O’Neill winced and muttered, “or don’t, Mr. President.”  
  
“Right,” the other man agreed, smiling. “Good point, Colonel. If I may point out, what you would normally do for your country, what you have, in fact, actually done for this planet Colonel, has rarely been normal. I’ve read your file. I know your record. You’ve refused orders, disobeyed orders, and then lied to your superiors, military and civilian, to cover up your insubordination.”  
  
O’Neill stared at Kennedy, feeling the muscles of his jaw clench. ‘So, he’s got me pegged as some kind of … renegade?’ he thought angrily. As Kennedy continued, his anger cooled.  
  
“And, that was why I was delighted it was you we rescued, Colonel O’Neill. We might easily have gotten some by-the-book bureaucrat. We got lucky. We got you, a man who uses his head. Time and again, you’ve done exactly what I’d have done in your place, Colonel. I just hope we can rely on you to do the right thing, regulations be damned, just one more time!”  
  
O’Neill felt those eyes again, watched JFK search for a sign of agreement or, at least empathy. It was too much. As a kid growing up without a father, Jack had worshiped this man. He turned away.  
  
His father, a man he’d barely known, died in Korea when Jack was a toddler. Jack’s mother raised him remembering his father as a hero, a man who died in the service of his country, died doing his very best for his men. Somewhere in those early years Jack discovered the Arthur legends and, for some long forgotten reason, linked the Korean Conflict, his father and the mythical warrior-king. They were men who fought for right, men who might one day return.  
  
The Camelot Years of the Kennedy Administration followed. JFK and Jacqueline, ‘Jackie’ Kennedy, charmed the Nation. A vital young President, the first Catholic to hold the office, the first Irish-American President, pointed the United States toward Space. At thirteen years old, young Jack idolized the President.  
  
The times were changing. Even as Jack devoured “The Once and Future King” and “Mort d’ Arthur,” Kennedy increased the number of "military advisors" in Vietnam from 8,000 to 18,000, authorizing them to fight beside South Vietnamese they advised and trained.  
  
Then JFK was assassinated. It happened on an autumn day in Dallas Texas. Was it a shot from an open window or a shooter on the grassy knoll? Jack never knew for sure. Unlike many Americans, he didn’t obsess over the murder.  
  
Jack O’Neill mourned. Then he went on living the dreams Kennedy had planted in his generation. When he recalled that day, he just remembered the feeling that something was terribly wrong, seeing teachers crying, huddled in small knots in the halls of his Junior High school, clinging to each other. All around him the adults were so frightened, so sad. Then Jack’s mother came into his classroom unexpectedly and took him home. He asked what had happened and she told him someone had shot the President, maybe Communists.  
  
They listened to news reports together all that afternoon and evening. Jack remembered sitting on the couch, holding his mother’s hand, trying not to cry like a kid as Walter Cronkite held back tears and announced that the president was dead. Beyond that simple fact, everything else was confused and remained confused in most peoples’ minds.  
  
A few days later, it all became very simple for Jack O’Neill. He watched a solemn soldier lead a jet-black horse through the streets of Washington DC, a horse with an empty saddle. Crowds lined the streets. Adults wept openly. Mrs. Kennedy mourned in solitary dignity. Her toddler son saluted his father’s flag-draped casket. Jack vowed that he would find those responsible and make them pay.  
  
Days passed and the United States moved on under President Lyndon Baines Johnson. In 1964, LBJ reported to Congress that North Vietnamese patrol boats had fired on a U.S. Destroyer in the Gulf of Tonkin LBJ retaliated. He ordered naval planes to bomb North Vietnam. In response to Johnson's speech, Congress endorsed the Gulf of Tonkin Resolution and empowered the President to take ‘all necessary measures to repel attacks … and prevent further aggression.’ The war escalated rapidly then from 50,000 U.S. troops in Vietnam in June 1965 to 188,000 by December.  
  
Jack continued to devour works on Arthurian legend, moving on to more scholarly works. He discovered Geoffrey Ashe’s books, “From Caesar to Arthur” and “King Arthur's Avalon: The Story of Glastonbury.” He also developed an appetite for military theory, strategy and leadership. He made it a habit to weigh the nightly news accounts of the war against ancient theories of war and valor. He tackled ever more obscure works, “The Arthurian Legend in the Literatures of the Spanish Peninsula”, “The Arthurian Legend in Italian Literature”, “The Apotheosis of Arthur”, “King Arthur in History and Legend”, and “Arthur and Gorlagon.”  
  
Usually Jack hid the slim volumes inside comic books. It helped him avoid annoying questions, in case anyone noticed such an unmitigated jock reading anything more strenuous than a girlie magazine. He told the reference librarians, who ordered them by inter-library loan, that the books were for his mother. The librarians pretended to believe him. Jack was grateful for their silent understanding.  
  
LBJ’s vision of a Great Society would soon founder on the shoals of war. By 1967, 389,000 U.S. troops were serving in Vietnam and that was Jack’s chosen future. At 17, swept up in national enthusiasm for space science and exploration, he enlisted in the Air Force. He slipped away before his graduation party on the first day he could sign-up without his mother’s approval. He told her later. She cried and begged Jack to reconsider. Despite her tears, everything seemed possible then, in those early days.  
  
On the day an American walked on the moon, Jack did not see Neil Armstrong descend the ladder. He didn’t see his foot touch its surface, didn’t see him plant the flag of the United States. Jack was on a highly classified intelligence mission off the coast of Southeast Asia. A Soviet ‘fishing trawler’ had trailed his ship all day on July 20, 1969. As they cruised in tandem, Jack listened to non-stop radio broadcasts of the moon landing.  
  
When Neil Armstrong finally set foot on the moon and said those unforgettable words, ‘One small step for Man; One giant leap for Mankind,’ everyone was filled with pride. A few minutes later, the Soviet trawler sent them a signal by flashing a light. It said, ‘Congratulations, Americans!’  
  
O’Neill realized in that instant that Kennedy had been right when he’d said, ‘There is no strife, no prejudice, no national conflict in outer space as yet. Its hazards are hostile to us all. Its conquest deserves the best of all mankind, and its opportunity for peaceful cooperation may never come again.’ Space and its exploration could unite the world. Jack O’Neill never forgot.  
  
Now, Kennedy lived; Arthur had returned. The legend stood before him with another clearly impossible challenge. ‘Get my people through the Star Gate!’  
  
Jack turned back to face the man and suddenly felt old, jaded and weary as he tried to find a way to refuse. The world knew Kennedy was dead. They saw him die. Nobody would believe him if he tried to explain this, not even General Hammond. Worse still, JFK wasn’t the President, wasn’t the rich son of a wealthy rum-smuggler. No, that would be too simple. He was an alien who’d worked for centuries in secret, infiltrated the government of the United States, probably manipulated world history and, worst of all, had just asked for help that Jack just could not give.  
  
O’Neill leaned against the wall and rubbed his hand through his hair, trying to think, but he couldn’t concentrate. Kennedy’s words, the words of Jack’s all-time favorite speech, echoed too clearly:  
  
‘Why, some say, the moon? Why choose this as our goal? And they may well ask why climb the highest mountain? Why, 35 years ago, fly the Atlantic? We choose to go to the moon. We choose to go to the moon in this decade and do the other things, not because they are easy, but because they are hard.’  
  
The kid inside wanted to help this man, but his adult voice counseled, “He’s got a snake in his head. It’s treason. President Kennedy died in Texas in 1963. Your Commander in Chief is President George Dubb-ya Bush, for crying out loud.’ That nagging inner voice reminded Jack of the tone he’d used sometimes when Charlie had given in to childish exuberance and taken a risk that churned a parent’s guts with alarm. Jack’s gut gave that same familiar lurch, a warning that he was very close to saying yes.  
  
Biding for time for reason to reassert itself, Jack asked, “How exactly did you rescue me, Sir?”  
  
“We were waiting for you, or someone like you to come along,” Kennedy explained. “We have people in small towns all around the Mountain, waiting for a way to make contact with someone like you, someone with the codes, the access and, hopefully, the understanding of the bigger picture, someone willing to help us.”  
  
“We’ve known of the existence of the Star Gate for a long, long time. Our first problem was finding the ‘Gates, then we needed a way to access them. They’d been lost. We feared they’d been destroyed. In the 1920s, an archeological dig on the Giza plateau uncovered your ‘Gate. We attempted to obtain the ‘Gate then, but before we could make arrangements, conflict erupted, followed by war in Europe that escalated into World War II. Then, after the liberation of Paris, the US Armed Forces Expeditionary Force managed to liberate the ‘Gate, along with a number of German scientists who had been involved with ‘Gate research.”  
  
Jack smiled slightly, “And the Germans were re-assigned to higher priority atomic research and Ernest Littlefield and Doctor Langford got their hands on it for the Army Air Corps?”  
  
Kennedy nodded. “Correct, Colonel, very good deduction.”  
  
“Then Doctor Littlefield disappeared and the project was closed down,” he concluded.  
  
“Again, correct. We tried to move the program forward, but after the disappearance of our first ‘traveler’ it became politically untenable. We’re patient people. We elevated our plans for infiltrating the United States government and became active on the political scene. Hence, my father’s political activities.”  
  
“Not your father?” Jack asked, intrigued.  
  
“Actually he was my father; I am his son. Bobby and Teddy are my brothers. It’s not all smoke and mirrors, Jack. Anyway, I won the election to everyone’s shock, including mine. I served as President and re-started the ‘Gate program. Once again, we ran out of time.”  
  
“This time, it was rumors of ‘Reds’ in the government, entertainment industry, science, and on and on. J. Edgar Hoover knew something was going on. The man was fanatical, but he was not stupid and … in this instance he was not entirely wrong. He was aware of our network. He attributed it wrongly to Communists. Ironically, in defense of this country, he began a chain of events that ended with my death.”  
  
“I wondered…” Jack began, then paused. “It seemed rude to ask you how you survived.”  
  
Kennedy smiled grimly. “I appreciate your restraint. The simple fact is that I didn’t survive. Jack, they shot me in the head. Nobody survives that kind of injury. The shot was intended for my neck, by the way. Only a very few people appreciate significance of that fact. I assume you do.”  
  
Jack nodded and murmured, “take out the snake and you kill the host. Who knew?”  
  
“Certain rivals within the Federal government. You’ve had dealings with them. The agency is called NID today. It had a different acronym then. The people haven’t changed. They learned about us. I never really knew how they learned or how much they understood. They supported certain pro-war factions within the military, extremists who would stop at nothing to build their bureaucratic kingdoms and were willing to drag us to the brink of war, or beyond, to do it. They fed information to Hoover, not everything, but enough. Thank god they never fully explained, maybe they didn’t have the complete picture themselves. I never knew for sure. They played my Joint Chiefs of Staff against me, played me against Castro and the rest of the Communist world.  
  
I imagine they promised certain enemies of my Administration to take care of me and promised I would not return. They missed, but not by much. Jackie had me rushed to the nearest hospital where I died, and then she took me to the sarcophagus. I was healed. It took a long time, as I imagine you appreciate from your own experience. After months, I was finally able to be moved. Then, we staged Bobby’s assassination, Marilyn ’s suicide and destroyed Teddy’s public image to ensure their safety. We still needed Teddy inside the government. We gambled that, as long as he was unable to run for President, he would be safe.”  
  
  
“It seemed like an unusual run of bad luck for one family,” Jack mused.  
  
“Yes, well fortunately no one ever put the pieces together, thanks to friends, among them certain men who served on the Warren Commission. So, you see, we still have friends, some still deep within the bureaucracy. You’d be surprised how many young people who joined the Federal government in the 1960s still work in that government in positions of trust and power. Thanks to civil service protection it is nearly impossible to get rid of a bureaucrat once he or she is in place. That worked to our advantage through the next several Administrations. Reagan did the most damage. By then it didn’t matter so much.  
  
Those people inside of government, Jack, I’m proud, very proud of those young people. We gave them a challenge, to dedicate their lives to making a better world. They did it. You did it, Colonel. You turned your eyes to the stars, didn’t you? Against all logic, all reason, you tried and, by God, you succeeded. Now, I’m asking you to help us succeed.”  
  
O’Neill felt his fears melt before those patient, intelligent eyes. If those eyes had glowed, even a glimmer, he’d have refused, but no. JKF just waited, sure of the outcome. He was right.  
  
“Yes, Mr. President.” Jack said softly. If you will give me your personal guarantee that no one in the SGC will be hurt, I’ll do it. I’ll get you and your people back through the ‘Gate, Sir. Somehow.”  
  
  
ΩΩΩ  
  
“You haven’t proven anything, Daniel,” Sam said flatly. “Prove it to me. Then, we’ll discuss next steps.”  
  
Daniel glared at her unresponsive face. He felt his anger rise. It was almost as if she wanted to believe Jack was gone. If it had been anyone by Sam, he’d have said so to her face. Instead he stifled his anger. The last thing he wanted to do was to alienate Sam. Also, he had to admit she was right. He and Teal’c had come running to her like a couple of school kids. They laid out their meager discovery, showed her the numbers and explained their significance. Sam listened and then she came up with two-dozen other plausible explanations, before she ran out of interest.  
  
Now, Daniel realized, he’d let relief and excitement at finding something cloud his judgment. Sam was right. While the matching numbers might show that Bobby Kennedy might have known about the Star Gate, they didn’t show much else. They didn’t prove a thing. Just because Jack had vanished in Cannon City … well, that could be explained as co-incidence, just as Teal’c had originally suggested. In fact it was more likely a co-incidence than a conspiracy. Occam’s razor says, all things being equal, the simplest explanation is most likely the correct explanation.  
  
Daniel walked away from Sam’s office, with Teal’c at his side. He knew he was missing an important connection. ‘But there’s so little to go on,’ he thought, ‘just a couple of numbers and a short reference to a trip almost fifty years ago. So little to go on. Modern history is not even my field, so the connections that might be obvious to an expert just aren’t obvious. It’s too little to go on and it’s not my field,’ he thought again. The two phrases bounced around in his head for a moment, ‘so little to go on … not my field… little … field … little-field … Littlefield!’ Daniel turned on Teal’c grabbed the surprised Jaffa by his shoulders and gave him an ineffective shake, “Earnest Littlefield! Katherine! Of course, Teal’c! We have to go see them right now!”  
  
Daniel pulled on Teal’c as he tried to rush down the hall. Teal’c ignored Daniel’s pulls and moved at his usual majestic stride, only slightly perplexed by the Doctor’s sudden exclamation.  
  
“Why, Daniel Jackson?” Teal’c asked as Daniel handed him a hat and started toward the elevator.  
  
“Because Teal’c, Katherine and Earnest were there in the early years. Maybe they remember something or someone who can help us make the connections that I seem to be missing.” Daniel and Teal’c emerged into the sunlight above the complex and as they slid into a government sedan, Teal’c said simply, “Indeed.”  
  
In less than an hour, Katherine Littlefield was welcoming Daniel and Teal’c into her home, now shared with her beloved Earnest. “Daniel and Teal’c! Come in, come in! My what a surprise! There’s nothing wrong, I hope, Samantha and Jack aren’t with you?”  
  
“Can we sit down, Katherine? I am here for your help and Earnest’s help, too.”  
  
Something in his voice must have warned them it was bad news because the newlyweds clasped hands as Daniel continued, “There’s been an accident. I can’t tell you much about it, but it’s about Jack. He might be … dead. I really don’t think so. I think he’s been abducted. I am trying to find a lead, to find anyone who might do such a thing and I need to backtrack the recent history of the Gate. I wonder if you can help me with the names of anyone who would have been with the program and continued to work with it, even after it closed down?”  
  
Earnest Littlefield shook his head sadly, “I wouldn’t know of course. I was gone when the program closed.” Then he turned to his wife and asked, “Katherine? Did Dr. Langford continue to work with the program for more than a few weeks afterwards?”  
  
Katherine shook her head, “No, Earnest. I’m sorry, Daniel. When Earnest was lost it broke my Father’s heart. The program closed, he retired and then in a few months he died of a heart attack in his sleep.”  
  
Silence fell over the group as each person struggled with emotions and memories. Then, suddenly, Earnest smiled and said, “Aha!” He stood and walked out of the room without another word, only to return a moment later with an old framed picture that he was dusting on the sleeve of his ancient cardigan. “See here, Katherine, is your Father and here I am and these others are the rest of our team. If you pull the back off of this picture frame, I’m pretty sure there are names on the back of this photograph of everyone who was on the team. See, there’s even the Army Air Corps’ Chaplin.”  
  
Teal’c and Daniel watched eagerly while Katherine and Earnest pried the back off the photograph. “Sure enough,” Katherine said softly, “that’s my father’s handwriting!”  
  
Daniel looked up at Katherine and Earnest and said, “Thank you. This might be very useful. First, could we also look through your journals to see if we can find … anything?”  
  
Earnest disappeared into the kitchen and put on a kettle for tea while Katherine led Daniel and Teal’c into the den where a series of nondescript journals lined several walls. “It’s quite a collection,” she said softly, “the life work of the two men I loved in my life. These are my Father’s,” she pointed to a long shelf of identical journals.  
  
“Which of these men might have continued with the program?” Teal’c asked, examining the faces in the photograph as Earnest came in with a tray of tea things.  
  
“None of the scientists,” Katherine conjectured. Earnest nodded, adding, “They would have moved on to other projects. Probably none of the technicians would have stayed on, either. We were at war by then and men were needed for other research projects, but there were others who might have had continuing duties, albeit rather mundane. There were janitors, book-keepers, maintenance men and such,” he continued, “maybe a few of them …”  
  
As Earnest spoke Katherine pulled journals from the shelves and handed them to Teal’c and Daniel. Then she sat with a journal, opened it with loving care and began to scan for names, dates, any clue. “What should we be looking for Daniel?” she said absently.  
  
Daniel looked up uncomfortably and said, “Look for the place name, Cannon City Colorado and look for anything to do with the Whitehouse or the President of the United States.”  
  
“Ahh, FDR was a great man,” Katherine said reverently.  
  
“Yes, he was.” Daniel agreed, holding his tongue. Of course there could be nothing about the Kennedy family in journals that pre-dated the Kennedy Presidency by twenty years. Still … Daniel glanced at Teal’c who returned his gaze with calm reticence. “And, Katherine, if you should happen to see any references to the Kennedy family …” Daniel trailed off, not wanting to explain. Katherine and Earnest exchanged a glance. They were silent; probably because of the blush of embarrassment Daniel felt creeping up his face.  
  
  
ΩΩΩ  
  
Sam Carter scowled at the stack of paperwork that covered her desk. ‘How’d the Colonel do it?’ she wondered. Tomorrow it would grow still larger.  
  
Sam opened the top file. ‘Requisitions for MALP parts. Great. At this rate, I’ll never find time to work on…. anything!’ she thought, alarmed.  
  
It had never occurred to her that advancement could be a bad thing, that Colonel O’Neill’s job involved so much paper, or that the paperwork that ran the SGC could be so incredibly dull. Colonel O’Neill had always been so laid back, unhurried, relaxed and confident. He always gave the impression of being a physical guy, the farthest thing possible from a paper-pusher. Yet, here was growing proof that the Colonel had pushed mountains of paper, pushed it every day, day in and day out. Evaluations, mission reports, logistical analyses, supply requisitions, promotions and on and on.  
  
It wasn’t just paperwork that had her rattled. Sam had almost lost it at the morning staff meeting, when Daniel insisted that Jack had survived the accident. Sam knew better. She’d seen the accident and medical files. She had personally combed through every page searching for a reason for hope. She’d found none.  
  
Jack O’Neill was really dead. Sam had struggled, ever since that terrible night, to come to terms with the fact, and all it meant. There’d be no ‘later’ for them. There’d been no ‘them,’ not really. There’d only been a hint of tantalizing possibility, if things were just different somehow. Daniel’s unshakable faith had upset her deeply, for reasons she still couldn’t understand.  
  
Then, three hours later, Daniel had burst into her lab, grinning, excited, spewing nonsense about pay stubs and threatening her own tenuous grip on rationality. Daniel had waved his pay slip under her nose along with a faded mimeograph, inviting her to believe.  
  
‘Yes, the numbers matched, but that’s not evidence of anything,’ Sam thought again, as she traced her finger down the list of MALP parts. She’d loosed a withering critique of his ‘findings, hit him full force.’ Daniel had looked at her like she’d betrayed something holy. Then he slunk away silently, with Teal’c at his heels. ‘I shouldn’t have been so hard on Daniel,’ she decided.  
  
As she read the supply requisition, Sam stifled false hope. She tried to focus, tried to push through. She tried to handle grief like a military professional. She’d seen Jack O’Neill and her father do it, by shoving grief aside through sheer force of will.  
  
Carter shook her head. It wasn’t working. She wished again that the Colonel would just walk through that door with a goofy grin on his face and make everything all right. ‘Not going to happen, Sam,’ she heard his voice in her head.  
  
‘Right, Colonel,’ she replied, ‘so I’d better get on with it.’ But even as she tried to re-focus her attention on the next stack of incredibly mundane forms, her over-active mind rebelled again, tripping away to wonder whether Daniel had something. Maybe if she followed the money. It felt right.  
  
‘There could be a connection. If I can still access some of the budgetary files I used at the Pentagon, maybe …’ she thought. Sam turned away from the piles of paperwork, caught herself and turned back, then stood and said, ‘Stuff this!” and nearly sprinted down the hall to the Physics lab.  
  
Sam picked up the threads where Daniel could not go. Drawing on her prior experience with the Pentagon’s computer systems, she hacked deep into the files of past budgets. She found the Star Gate program’s subdirectory. There she found a series of folders that she’d never noticed before. They held old records. Sam traced the SGC account back farther and farther in time until she realized she’d found an address in Cannon City Colorado.  
  
It had been rented, under the SGC account, and was still being paid for by the same account just as it had been since November 1963, one week before the Kennedy assassination. Two hours later, she was still waiting impatiently for Daniel and Teal’c to return to the Mountain.  
  
  
ΩΩΩ  
  
“This is getting us nowhere,” Daniel said. “I’m sorry Katherine, Earnest. I really appreciate your help. It’s just that we just aren’t finding anything useful in these journals.”  
  
Earnest smiled sadly and said, “I’m not surprised, really. Dr. Langford was a rather single-minded man, a scientist first and foremost. I would be surprised if he’d used his professional journals for anything except a record of scientific progress and other developments directly related to the Star Gate program.”  
  
“Except this, dear,” Katherine said, holding up the last journal in the collection. She flipped to the last page and read aloud.  
  
“The project is being discontinued. The loss of Dr. Earnest Littlefield was too great a loss, both professionally and personally, to continue. I could not tell Katherine how he died. It’s classified, of course, and I am responsible for his death. I should have been the man to step through the Star Gate, not Earnest. I am an old man with little future to lose, but I was ambitious, too ambitious for his career, too eager to give my daughter a bright future with a successful scientist. I was blind to the risks and it has cost me my project and my daughter the man she loved and their future together. I was a fool. Today, the Chaplin led us all in a memorial service for Earnest. I wish so much that Katherine could have been there, could know that he died a hero.”  
  
Katherine looked up at Earnest and said, “I knew.”  
  
He smiled and replied, “And you were wrong, my dear. I did not die.”  
  
A long silence hung between them, until Teal’c said, “Perhaps we should attempt to eliminate men in this photograph who would not have continued with the Star Gate program after Dr. Littlefield’s … apparent death. Those who remain, we can locate and conduct interrogations …”  
  
“Interviews, Teal’c, not interrogations,” Daniel corrected.  
  
Teal’c bowed his head. “As you wish, Doctor Jackson.”  
  
“Right,” Daniel agreed as Earnest and Katherine huddled over the photo with him at the center. “These men in the front center, these six, were scientists. The five men behind them were technicians. None of them would be any help. They would have been immediately reassigned to weapons research. Dr. Langford had to battle constantly to keep the team together, with the war on and the need for a super-weapon foremost in everyone’s minds.”  
  
“These three men were the cameramen and would have been reassigned as well, I should think. That leaves the clerk-typists, the Chaplin, two janitors and the security detail. That’s all, seven men,” Earnest stated.  
  
Daniel nodded and continued, peering at the faces of the men, “the Chaplin, janitors and clerks were old men even then. They would be dead by now. That leaves the security detail.”  
  
Teal’c turned over the photo and read the names opposite the young soldiers’ faces. “They were brothers, it seems. Theodore and Robert Fitzgerald Kennedy.” He looked up at the startled faces of the three Doctors.  
  
“They were brothers, Teal’c,” Katherine said. “And their other brother was serving in the Pacific at the time. He would become the 35th President of the United States.”  
  
“John Fitzgerald Kennedy,” Teal’c stated solemnly, “A great leader.”  
  
Daniel took the photo from Teal’c and turned to Katherine. “May I borrow this for a few days?”  
”Certainly,” she said, “and you can bring it back with good news about Jack.”  
  
 _ **Chapter 4. Star Struck  
**_  
“Hello again, Colonel O’Neill.” Jack recognized her voice. It was sultry, musical. He watched her walk towards him -- like silk sliding over ice. She wore a simple sweater and loose slacks. Her soft, blonde hair reached her shoulders. She wore no lipstick, barely any makeup. Still there was something that made her seem the same, just as he remembered her from old black and white movies and newsreels.  
  
Only she was coming towards him in living color – blonde, buxom, and fully feminine: Marilyn Monroe – a legend; another legend, another tragic end to a young and brilliant life.  
  
‘Another lie,’ he realized because here she was, a smile playing on her lips, very, very much alive. Jack sighed, caught himself and tried to remember how to breathe normally, where to look so as not to stare, what to do with his hands. This was not the first time he’d been with her. It was the first time he understood who she was. Her voice was that same smiling voice that had interrogated him for so many hours, boring hours that now suddenly seemed exciting when he realized the warm, fascinating person who’d been watching him from behind the impenetrable glare of lights. Marilyn.  
  
“You have a habit of not answering me, Jack. May I call you ‘Jack’?” She laughed as he nodded without speaking, and she continued, “But I forgive you.” He felt a blush creep up his neck and grinned to cover his inner turmoil. This woman had him way off balance, almost like the experiences Carter and Doc Fraiser had described when Hathor had placed all the men at the SGC under her pheromone-powered spell. It was not something he remembered clearly, just a feeling, like being an adolescent again, agog, unable to speak, willing to do anything to win that smile, to catch those eyes. He grinned harder and said, “I’m not used to speaking with dead movie stars. It’s … strange, Miss Monroe.”  
  
“Call me, Marilyn, or ‘M’ if you like. Everyone does. If it helps, Jack, think of me as a military advisor, or a teacher. After all, that’s been my role most of the time we’ve been here on Earth. I was only in the public spotlight briefly because it helped me move between certain … useful circles and the Whitehouse. I needed a plausible reason to be close to certain people. Movie stars can mingle with gangsters, politicians, foreign leaders, anyone powerful, anyone with influence. You understand?” She smiled and her teeth seemed incredibly white between …  
  
‘Get a grip,’ Jack warned himself and said aloud, “So you’re here to talk about how we take the SGC?”  
  
“Yes. I reviewed your proposal and I’m concerned about a fundamental aspect of your strategy. Why, why, why do you feel it’s necessary to expose yourself, Colonel? This plan puts you at tremendous personal risk. After we leave through the Gate, you will remain behind. If you are seen leading forces that successfully penetrate the SGC, how can you explain yourself? You’ll be shot for treason, you know?”  
  
Jack looked into her pretty brown eyes. Then he scanned the floor just to look elsewhere while he lied to her. “Yeah, well I don’t think so, M . I’m pretty sure I can talk my way out of it. I’ll claim you forced me to give up the codes. There are drugs and techniques no one can resist. I’ll tell them I was cooperating to try to minimize the risk to SGC personnel and I was biding for time to betray you. We’ll just arrange some evidence to support my story and I’ll handle the rest. I’ve had experience with the kinds of questions the Air Force asks POWs and hostages. I think I can put on a convincing performance, at least enough for plausible deniability.”  
  
The truth, he knew, was that he was taking a hell of a risk. He glanced at her and knew she’d seen through his cock-and-bull story. She knew he was lying to her face. He felt a distinct chill and studied his boots as he felt her eyes on him.  
  
She replied coolly, “It won’t be the SGC, or even the Air Force asking the questions, Colonel. It’ll be the NID. You must know that. They’ll break you, Jack,” she said simply touching his forearm.  
  
His heart leapt and he stammered, “No, I don’t think so, really. General Hammond will run interference for me. Otherwise, I wouldn’t risk it. Besides, I need to be sure this comes off without a hitch. There is just no other way to be absolutely sure that no one gets hurt!”  
  
“Except you, you mean. It’s a bad plan, Colonel. I’m not going to let it you do it. I’m sorry,” she said as she stroked the back of his hand.  
  
Jack looked into her brown eyes. They were no longer brown. They’d begun to glow. He stood and stepped back instinctively, toppling a chair backwards. The beam from the ribbon device concealed in her other hand caught him, bringing him almost to his knees. He hung for a moment, before she freed him. Then he collapsed beside the chair.  
  
M righted the chair and bent down, saying, “I’ve had quite enough of dead heroes, Colonel.” She stroked his cheek and said, “Let me handle this, and live, Jack.”  
  
  
ΩΩΩ  
  
“There is just no way we can interrogate Teddy Kennedy!” Sam said, exasperated. “He’s a Senator!”  
  
“A Senator who serves as Chairman of the Armed Services Committee,” Daniel said, pressing his point. He thrust the photograph under Sam’s nose. “He guarded the Star Gate, Sam. That means something!”  
  
“I agree Daniel. We don’t know what it means. Without a very good reason, we can’t just drag a US Senator into the SGC for interrogation!” she countered.  
  
“An interview,” Daniel insisted.  
  
Teal’c looked from Sam to Daniel and said, “If he is indeed so interested in the Star Gate program, perhaps he will come willingly, if he is invited and if he understands that we are aware of a security problem.”  
  
Sam and Daniel exchanged surprised looks and then turned back to Teal’c. “Brilliant!” Daniel exclaimed.  
  
“Yeah, not bad, Teal’c,” Sam agreed, “We’ll need to talk to General Hammond. I think we have enough evidence that something is going on to make our case. I think he’ll agree.”  
  
  
ΩΩΩ  
  
General Hammond picked up the handset for the white telephone on his desk, not the red phone that connects directly to the Whitehouse, and waited while an airman connected him to Senator Kennedy’s office.  
  
“Hello, Senator Kennedy here,” the voice came through the receiver.  
  
“General George Hammond here, Senator,” Hammond replied.  
  
“This is unprecedented General. Your chain of command is through the Whitehouse, General,” Kennedy replied.  
  
“Yes, Senator. I appreciate that fact. Please consider this more in the nature of a personal call. Senator, we’ve appreciated your support for the program over the years and I thought you might enjoy a tour of our facility, a chance to see the Star Gate again.”  
  
Kennedy’s surprise registered as only a momentary hesitation, credit to his vast experience in politics, “A tour?” he asked slowly. “General Hammond that is very kind of you, however my schedule for the next month is packed. What date did you have in mind?”  
  
“Today, Senator,” Hammond replied without the slightest hesitation, pressing his advantage he continued, “I think you will find it … interesting, Senator.”  
  
“I think I get your point, General,” Kennedy replied.  
  
“An Air Force jet is already waiting for you at Reagan International Airport.” Hammond continued, “ and I’ve ordered a helicopter to the helipad at the North end of the Capitol Complex.”  
  
“A tour,” Kennedy said once again.  
  
“Yes, a tour,” Hammond replied and then elaborated “and a discussion of SGC security.”  
  
“Right, General. I accept your kind invitation,” Kennedy said and hung up the phone. The Senator paused a moment, then pressed the intercom and told his secretary to clear his calendar for the rest of the week. Then he called his brother in Cannon City Colorado.  
  
  
ΩΩΩ  
  
“Jack, Jackie, we have a problem,” the Senator’s voice came through the speakerphone. “I’ve just had an invitation to visit SGC today. They’re sending a chopper for me now. It’s pretty clear that they know … something.”  
M nodded and said, “This is an opportunity, Teddy.” She turned to the couple beside her and continued, “The Colonel’s plan would have worked perfectly, but only if he ran a terrible risk. He was going to sacrifice himself, Jack, because you asked him to help us. We don’t work that way; we don’t sacrifice our friends.”  
  
JFK frowned and said, “Of course not. I had no idea. Gorlagon never said a word about this.”  
  
M continued, “Now, we have an alternative. We get a small group inside SGC. We don’t need to risk a firefight. Once inside, we disable the security system. We secure the Gate and hold it until the entire family arrives. We’ll use O’Neill as a hostage. Hammond will have to listen to reason.”  
  
“O’Neill respects Hammond,” Jackie said thoughtfully. “From what I’ve read of their mission reports, the General is a wise leader. He cares about his people.”  
  
“He won’t sacrifice O’Neill,” JFK added. Then he asked, “How do we prep Teddy, M? There’s not much time.”  
  
“Right,” M said leaning down toward the speakerphone. “Ted bring the group from your personal staff. Have them carry standard firearms. They’ll be confiscated of course at the SGC. You carry as well. Use the plastic handgun. Bring a gas canister. It won’t disable the entire facility, of course. You only need to take out the security at the first level. Acquire the latest access codes for the SGC mainframe. So, we won’t reveal that O’Neill gave us his code. They’ll never suspect that he cooperated with us. Okay?”  
  
“Got it, M, okay. I’ll meet you at the Gate,” the Senator joked, trying to keep the conversation light.  
  
“Ted,” his eldest brother said seriously, “you don’t have to worry about your family. You know that, right?”  
  
“Right, Jack. I know,” he answered and they heard him hang up.  
  
M glanced at her watch and said, “Three hours until he’s inside. We are two hours from the Mountain. Time to move.”  
  
  
ΩΩΩ  
  
“Welcome to the SGC, Senator Kennedy,” General Hammond smiled and extended his right hand. Kennedy took his hand in a firm handshake and said bluntly, “General, I’d appreciate knowing what this is about.”  
  
Hammond glanced at the people around them and said, “Senator, if you’ll step this way, I’ll explain.”  
  
Suddenly, as if on an impulse, the Senator smiled. With a strange gleam in his eyes he said, “First, if you don’t mind, General, I’ve always wanted to see the Star Gate control room. Is it this way?” He started down the correct hallway.  
  
‘He’s familiar with the complex, I see,’ Hammond thought as he trailed behind and replied, “That’s exactly right, Senator.”  
  
The guard at the door stopped the Senator. Hammond opened the door to the control room and ushered the dignitaries through into the small gray room filled with blinking lights, dials and a wall of windows looking down onto the Gate room and the Star Gate itself.  
  
“This is the control room, Senator, and that of course is the Star Gate,” Hammond stated the obvious and noticed that Kennedy said nothing. ‘Perhaps he hasn’t seen it before. Maybe he’s in awe of the thing,’ Hammond had the fleeting thought. He’d seen other world leaders reduced to mere kids in a toy store before this wondrous technology.  
  
In the next instant, Hammond heard a sharp click and felt the muzzle of a handgun pressed against the base of his skull. He didn’t turn, but he heard the Senator say, “I’m sorry, General. We are going through the Gate. If you don’t resist, if you tell your people to stand down and not interfere, no one will be hurt. We just want to leave this planet. Do you understand?”  
  
Hammond nodded and said softly, “I won’t give you the codes, neither will anyone else in the SGC, Senator.”  
  
“It doesn’t matter, General. I don’t need your cooperation. Just don’t try to stop us. No one will be hurt, I promise.” Kennedy replied. Hammond turned slightly made eye contact and realized the gleam he’d seen in the Senator’s eyes had become a full-blown glow.  
  
“Goa’uld?” Hammond blurted turning on the Senator, “a United States Senator and you are a Goa’uld?”  
  
“I’m many things, General, a Senator, former military, a Veteran of World War II and of more wars before that than you can imagine. One thing I am not is a Goa’uld. Unfortunately, I don’t have time to explain to you what precisely I am, what we are.”  
  
Hammond watched in horror as Kennedy pulled a plastic canister out of his breast pocket and handed it to one of his aides. “You know what to do,” he said and the aide nodded and left the control room.  
  
“What is that, Senator?” Hammond demanded.  
  
“Nothing harmful, George. I’m just clearing the way for my people. It will help us avoid unnecessary confrontations, accidental injuries. Neither of us wants that, I promise.” Kennedy replied. George wanted to believe him. Then he saw that ugly glimmer again and steeled himself for the worst. What could he do with a gun to his head?  
  
As Kennedy pressed the muzzle tight against him, Hammond watched as the other two aides typed valid authorization codes into the computer and, at that moment, realized he could do something. He could stop this, even if they shot him. He just had to fall on that large red button to institute Situation Wildfire. Once that started the SGC would lock down and only Hammond’s personal code would stop it.  
  
Hammond moved faster than he thought possible. He threw himself against the console and slamming his palm down on the large red-plastic button. Alarms resounded throughout the complex. Doors immediately began to slide shut and Senator Kennedy cursed, eyes aglow and dragged Hammond back, away from the button. “Stop this!” he roared, “Let us go! Let us go, before you kill my people and yours! There’s no need to resist!”  
  
Hammond was on his knees, but as he looked into the fierce eyes of the Goa’uld, he smiled fiercely.  
  
“You can go, Senator,” Hammond snarled. “You can go to hell.” Then the heavy metal doors slammed shut, isolating the Gate and the entire SGC from the outside world.  
  
 _ **Chapter 5. Wildfire  
**_  
Jack opened his eyes and realized he was being dragged out of a covered truck. He looked around and his heart sunk as he saw he was at the entrance of Cheyenne Mountain. Screaming klaxons told him everything had gone to hell. The place was in full lock-down, probably a Wildfire Situation. Jack knew it was his fault.  
  
He struggled to his feet, suddenly realized he was in bad shape, feeling pain from a dozen injuries that had been almost healed. “What the hell?” he mumbled as he clutched his chest and leaned against the truck.  
  
M was suddenly beside him, supporting him, easing him back to the ground. “Please don’t try to move. Remember we needed evidence that you’d been ‘persuaded’ Colonel?” she explained.  
  
“You’ve screwed it up!” Jack challenged her, trying to ignore her touch and the intimation that they were working together. The effort to ignore his attraction to her made his words come out rougher than intended. “What about no one gets hurt! How’s that going?”  
  
She didn’t rise to the challenge, instead she answered gently, “No one has been hurt, Jack, but you’re right. The rest is not going well. We underestimated your people. Suddenly the doors closed and locked. Alarms sounded. What’s happening, do you know? Will troops be arriving?”  
  
“It looks like Hammond instituted a Wildfire Situation. If he did, there won’t be any troops coming in at the surface. There’s no need for them. No one will get into or out of the Mountain unless and until Hammond decides the threat is past. If he doesn’t decide that in the next 180 minutes, he will blow this place to hell.” Jack paused watching her face as she realized the Gate would, in fact, be destroyed along with any hope of leaving Earth. “How many do you have inside?” he asked.  
  
“Teddy and his three aides. No one else made it in,” she answered.  
  
“What was the plan?”  
  
“To get into the control room, overpower the General, take control and disable the security details at the entrance and level fifteen, then open the facility and let us move in, activate the Gate and leave. We would have used Hammond and you as hostages, as bargaining chips. It should have worked,” she replied.  
  
“Yeah, except it didn’t. You don’t know Hammond,” Jack said gruffly, then he sighed. “I was a fool to listen to you people.”  
  
M touched his hand tentatively. He jerked it away. She continued, “It’s not too late. You can help General Hammond and us, Jack. Speak to him, convince him to trust us.”  
  
“Convince him. Lady, I don’t even trust you. Not after your last stunt, not since you broke your word to me,” he said acidly. “Not going to happen.”  
  
M paused, considered and tried a new approach. “You have failed in your mission, Jack. One day they will close the SGC down, or the Goa’uld will come and wipe you out, enslave your planet.”  
  
He glared at her, knowing she was right. “God, I hate this. She’s so damned right! This is all wrong!’ he thought bitterly.  
  
“You need to make contact with an advanced race willing to share advanced technology, advanced weaponry, Colonel.” She continued.  
  
‘So, it’s back to “Colonel”, now,’ O’Neill thought as he spoke, “Yeah. What’s your point?”  
  
“You’ve found them,” she said smiling. Our ship is still out there. You will never find it without our help. If you do stumble into it, well, you know about the dangers of the Bermuda Triangle. Are you willing to send men to their deaths?” she said pointedly and continued, “I can give you the exact location, just help us. Talk to Hammond, be our go-between.”  
  
Jack stared, thinking aloud said, “Mrs. Kennedy mentioned that.” After a moment, he continued, “If you go through the Gate, how will I know you’d come back. Giving me your promise won’t cut it. Sorry.”  
  
“Then we will help you recover it first, Colonel, but before we can do that, you must save the Gate. Save the staff within SGC, the people you wanted to protect. Save them, if you won’t help us.”  
  
“Okay, I need a way to communicate with the people inside the SGC. The phone lines are off, all except the red phone to the Whitehouse. There are about a hundred two-way radios in there. So, if you have a radio, I can try to contact the General. Did any of our guys make it outside?”  
  
“Yes, we found several men on the ground who’d tried to escape the gas and then passed out. We’ve taken their weapons and other equipment. I’ll bring you one of their radios. I’ll just be a minute.”  
  
Jack watched her trot away through the crowd, a crowd of approximately three hundred people. As he waited tried to think what he’d say to Hammond, what he could possibly say to convince George that he was alive, himself and not speaking under duress.  
  
M returned a moment later with a walkie-talkie. Jack took it, adjusted the frequency and keyed the mike button. Then he spoke. “SGC this is SG-1, over.” There was no reply. He tried again. “SGC this is SG-1, over.” He waited longer this time, listening to just static, and almost as he was about to try again he heard a click and a young voice came through. “SGC here.”  
  
Jack replied immediately, “This is Colonel O’Neill.”  
  
The voice sounded dubious as the young airman responded, “Colonel O’Neill? Who is this?”  
  
“Yeah, they probably told you I’m dead, well they thought I was. It’s just not true Airman. This is O’Neill. Get General Hammond on the radio immediately.” The authority in his demand tipped the balance. The voice replied, “Yes, Colonel. Glad they were wrong, Sir. It’ll be a minute.” Then there was a click and he was gone.  
  
Jack waited, still trying to decide what would convince Hammond he was genuine. Then, Jack heard the radio set click and Hammond’s voice come through. He sounded pissed. “Who the hell is this?” Hammond demanded.  
  
“It’s me, O’Neill, General Hammond. General, I’m sorry I let this happen. Is anybody hurt?” Jack blurted without thinking. It was exactly what Hammond needed to hear to know for sure that it was really Jack O’Neill. Almost anyone else would have said something about his own well-being, the accident, how he’d cheated death. O’Neill’s first thought, as always, was for his troops.  
  
“No one’s dead, Jack, and I’m sure there’s nothing to apologize for, Colonel. Are you all right? We were told you died in that accident over a week ago. We had a memorial service for you two days ago.”  
  
“Sweet,” O’Neill murmured. “Sir, I’m their prisoner. I understand you are holding Senator Kennedy and his aides. These people are serious, General, but I’m not convinced they are dangerous. They’re called the Yult, or something like that. They want me to make you an offer. If you’ll shut down the autodestruct sequence, they will provide us with advanced weaponry, technology that we can use against the Goa’uld. If it’s as powerful as I think, George, this will be very useful technology.  
  
“But … I take it they want to go through the Gate to show it to us?” Hammond mused, “We’d be walking into an ambush, Jack.”  
  
“It’s already here. It’s on Earth, General,” Jack countered and listened to the resounding silence as his words sunk in.  
  
“Here!” Hammond said finally.  
  
“They’ve been here a while, Sir. Look, George, they say they just want a way off this rock,” Jack replied by way of explaining.  
  
“And you’ll go with them to get this technology?” Hammond asked.  
  
“Sorry, Sir. You better send up Carter and Teal’c. I’m not in any condition to travel, General.” O’Neill replied, trying to sound matter of fact. It was hard. Exhaustion settled over him like a heavy blanket.  
  
Hammond recognized the signs that O’Neill was either exhausted, injured, or both. To cut through the heroics, he barked, “Report your condition Colonel.”  
  
“Pretty busted up, General,” Jack admitted without arguing.  
  
‘A straight answer, that’s a bad sign,’ Hammond thought and continued brusquely, “They tortured you?” Hammond growled. Suddenly he was rethinking his decision to trust these aliens. “I’m not sending any more …”  
  
“They also saved my life, George. They just needed information. I had it. They wanted it. They took it. Like I said, these people are serious.” Jack hissed, wishing the General would take his word so he could lie down.  
  
Hammond heard O’Neill’s words slur and realized his 2IC was in no condition to debate this decision. “Okay, Jack. Hang in there, Doctor Fraiser will be right up and I’m sending Carter and Teal’c to take a look at what these aliens are offering us. We’ll be right up to get you, Jack.”  
  
  
ΩΩΩ  
  
Carter was at her battle station at the back-up autodestruct device when she heard the klaxons stop screaming and her name announced over the PA system. “Major Carter to the control room, immediately. Teal’c to the control room, immediately.” She took a last look at the status of the device, in case that was the purpose of the summons, and headed up the hallway at a rapid jog.  
  
As she turned the last corner to catch the elevator to level 33 she saw Teal’c coming from his post at the armory. “Hey,” she called, “any idea what’s going on?”  
  
“We were in Situation Wildfire. Now it’s been downgraded to an alert,” Teal’c stated the obvious. “I do not know why.”  
  
“Me neither,” Sam said, “I wonder if we were just showing our stuff for Senator Kennedy?”  
  
“Perhaps,” Teal’c said. “The Senator should have arrived more than an hour ago. We were to have briefed him almost forty-five minutes ago. I believe something serious has occurred. Otherwise the General would not delay our briefing of a visiting ‘Big Wig’ like Senator Kennedy. His brother was the 35th President of the United States.”  
  
Carter grinned and tried not to snicker. “Did the Colonel teach you that phrase for important people, Teal’c?” she asked.  
  
“He did.” Teal’c stated. “I often heard him use it.” Then he noted Carter’s smile and continued, “Is it not appropriate?”  
  
“It’s meaning is right, Teal’c,” Carter replied, “Still, you shouldn’t call the Senator a big wig to his face. It might be considered …” she hesitated.  
  
Teal’c completed the thought, “Rude. I see. I have noted this before with language O’Neill favored.”  
  
Carter smiled despite the lump in her throat and said, “Yeah, me too Teal’c. That was part of the fun, I guess.”  
  
The elevator stopped and the doors opened. Sam wiped her eyes on her sleeve and then walked down the hall to the control room. She was ready for whatever assignment the General had in mind. As she descended the last few steps into the control room, Carter noticed a full security detail in the small room.  
  
‘Guess Teal’s was right,’ she thought as she said, “Major Carter reporting, as ordered, General. What’s happening, Sir? Has the Senator been delayed?”  
  
“Detained, Major.” Hammond stated without elaboration. “Join me in my office, please.” Hammond turned and led the way.  
  
Sam followed, uneasy about his brusque manner and the odd mix of emotions on the General’s normally congenial face. She sat beside Teal’c. The General settled behind his desk. He sat for a moment with his fingers steepled, gathering his thoughts and then explained.  
  
“Several shocking developments have occurred in the past hour. I have an assignment for you both as a result. There’s good news, first. Colonel O’Neill is alive. I just spoke with him. He’s outside at the front entrance, being held by a group of unidentified hostiles that just attempted to take control of the SGC. That is why Senator Kennedy is being detained. He led the incursion. Apparently, Doctor Jackson was right about the Senator.”  
  
Carter stared at the General, not knowing what to say, rather what to say first. It was almost too much to take in at once. So, she remained silent and the General continued.  
  
“I initiated Wildfire when two aides accompanying the Senator entered valid access codes into the Control Room computer. The Senator was holding a gun to my head while they did it. I was able to make it to the autodestruct button. When he realized there was no way to stop the lock-down, he became more cooperative. So, for now at least it’s checkmate.”  
  
“Surveillance tells me there is a force of roughly 300 people outside the main entrance. The security at Level 1 has been out of contact. I have reason to believe they were disabled with some sort of gas. The Senator indicated there’d be no lasting effects.”  
  
“Soon after I initiated autodestruct, one of the security detail on level 15 picked up a radio transmission from the surface. It was Colonel O’Neill. He contacted me at the request of the Senator’s associates. The Colonel told me these people are desperate to go through the Star Gate. He said they’re willing to offer advanced technology, technology we can use against the Goa’uld, if we will let them go. He indicated they’re serious, but not necessarily dangerous. Frankly, I wondered whether he was under duress. Now that I’ve thought about it, it could be true.”  
  
“The Senator could have just shot me in the control room. He didn’t. He claimed that no one would be harmed. He pleaded for me to not resist. At the time I thought he was just trying to gain my cooperation. In retrospect, perhaps this force is peaceful. Maybe they want nothing more than to leave Earth. If they can offer us valuable technology, if they present no threat, I’m inclined to let them go through the Gate to an uninhabited world.”  
  
“Major Carter, I want you and Teal’c to check it out. Verify that everything seems safe, or at least the risk is acceptable. If it is, you will accompany them to see this technology they’re offering. Determine whether it is valuable or not. Learn how to safely recover it from wherever it is and return here to brief me on our best course of action.”  
  
“Major,” Hammond’s face was serious, “the first thing I want you to do is to check on O’Neill. If you find the Colonel was forced, or he’s not himself, or if you have the sense that these people present a threat to this facility or to Earth itself, I need to know about it. Teal’c, I want you to cover the Major’s back. See if you recognize these aliens. I’d like to know about them, if you’ve ever encountered before and, if so, whether they present a threat. Questions?”  
  
“So, you’re telling me the Senator was cooperating with these aliens, Sir?” Carter asked in disbelief.  
  
“Not cooperating, Major. He is an alien. When I initiated Wildlife, he got agitated. His eyes glowed. I thought he was Goa’uld. He denied it. He said something like, ‘I am many things, but not a Goa’uld.’ From the way he said it, it seemed like he …” Hammond stopped and turned to Teal’c. “Have you encountered any other races whose eyes glow, other than the Goa’uld and the Tok'Ra?”  
  
“I have not,” Teal’c said simply.  
  
“Well, I doubt that Colonel O’Neill would recommend cooperating with them if he believed they’re Goa’uld.” Hammond smiled and gave a short bark of a laugh. “Hell, he barely tolerates joint operations with the Tok’Ra. That’s another reason I am giving this proposal of whoever they are serious consideration, rather than just calling for reinforcements.”  
  
“Even so, Major, Teal’c,” Hammond continued. “I can’t count on the Colonel’s assessment the way I would normally. They have held him long enough that anything could have happened to him. So, Major, I want you to talk with him, make sure he’s being taken care of, make sure he’s himself before you proceed. Then, tell the Yult that we have three conditions. Make them understand that our demands are absolutely not negotiable. First, they must release O’Neill to us immediately, along with all our people. Second, they provide you and Teal’c absolute safe conduct. If anything happens to jeopardize your welfare the deal’s off and I turn over our prisoners to the authorities. Third, you will be allowed to remain in communications with me at all times, without limit. And, Major Carter, you will remain in constant contact. I need to know what’s happening and that you are safe. Clear?”  
  
“Yes, Sir,” Carter answered. “Perfectly clear.”  
  
“Dismissed.” Hammond said and turned to his desk. Carter stood and started through the door when she stopped suddenly and blurted. “General, what about Daniel?”  
  
Hammond looked up and said simply, “Doctor Jackson won’t be coming along on this mission. I need him for … something else.”  
  
“Yes Sir,” Carter said and left wondering what the General had in mind. As she walked down the hall with Teal’c at her side, she realized she was smiling, actually grinning like a kid. She snuck a glance at Teal’c and saw a rare and radiant smile lighting his face.  
  
“He’s alive, Teal’c. Daniel was right, the Colonel was out there somewhere!” she said.  
  
“Yes,” Teal’c replied with such relish that his single word spoke volumes.  
  
  
  



	2. Part 2 - Lies & Legends

  
Author's notes: Familiar Faces; Fantastic Fallacies  


* * *

**Part II: Lies & Legends  
**   
  
_**Chapter 1.** _

“Let go, Jack.” O’Neill heard her and obeyed, letting himself slip into nothingness. He was already gone when M bent down to pull the radio from his grip.  
  
She stood and considered her options and O’Neill. Jack O’Neill clearly had been injured and he’d definitely had been their prisoner. Given the circumstances, those inside SGC were likely to assume he’d been tortured for information, but they would be wrong. No one among her family had raised a hand to him. M had, however, reversed the process she’d used to save him.  
  
M knelt beside Jack and watched it happen. His injuries were bad when he collapsed after convincing the General to work with her family. Now they grew worse with each passing moment. A gash above his hairline had appeared and begun to bleed again. His right eye was swelling shut and a halo of discoloration was rapidly spreading where his jaw had fractured.  
  
As the wounds reappeared, M realized how badly he’d been injured in the accident and just how brutal her family would appear to General Hammond and anyone else who saw him. Jack would certainly suffer in the short term. In the long term M hoped to save his life.  
  
Any doctor who examined Jack would report he’d been tortured. That was fine. M was counting on it, in fact. Evidence that he’d resisted was O’Neill’s best protection, as M saw it. If the deception failed, Jack O’Neill could be shot. She would not allow him to pay for the humanity and courage he’d shown to help her family.  
  
The deception was a white lie, as she saw it, a small evil she’d commit willingly for a greater good. He was pathetic, lying in the dust beside the truck -- Too pathetic. She decided it wouldn’t risk too much to make him more presentable.  
  
M called for water and bandages and told some of her family to move Jack into the shade of the mountain. There she quickly dressed his nastier wounds: wiping dust and blood from his face and cleansing the wicked gash, then binding his head to stop the flow of blood down his temple. She wrapped his shattered left wrist. The steering wheel had shredded the tendons. Without the sarcophagus, she could do nothing for his ribs or the extensive internal injuries. Those injuries would continue to re-emerge over the next three days, telling his story in blunt terms.  
  
In time, M knew, Jack O’Neill’s friend, General Hammond, would beg her to save O’Neill. Her family’s access to the Gate would be ensured. M worried O’Neill’s injuries might go too far, too fast. O’Neill might give General Hammond strong evidence that her family was to be feared. He might refuse to trust them. She would provide the General with additional leverage to give him the sense that he was in charge.  
  
As M tied off the last bandage, Jack looked better, more cared after, less like a casualty of war against barbarians. Satisfied, M stood and wondered, ‘Hvar er Asatur?’ as she scanned the crowd for JFK. She caught a glimpse of him walking toward her and waved, “Hier!”  
  
He smiled and came toward her.  
  
“Móðir,” he greeted her and they hugged briefly, but before they could continue, M caught sight of Doctor Fraiser approaching.  
  
Fraiser pushed her way through the crowd of strangers, looking for any sign of Colonel O’Neill. She’d been told he needed her, again. She had hustled right up to collect him, but no one seemed to understand as she asked where to find him. It was weird. There were at least a couple hundred civilians, yet no one seemed to be in charge.  
  
Then, a wave from a woman ahead caught her attention. She realized she knew the face. ‘She’s very familiar,’ Fraiser thought. When the man beside her turned, Janet almost dropped her medical bag. She recognized JFK immediately; almost anyone would from the United States, from her generation. Fraiser never faltered. She advanced on the legendary pair and asked simply, “Where’s Colonel O’Neill? I’m here to take him to the Infirmary.”  
  
Before they could speak, Fraiser saw Jack on the ground, he appeared semi-conscious. She pushed past them, saying, “I understand he needs medical attention!” and crouched beside him. “We’ve got you, Colonel.” Janet spoke reassuring words that her friend Jack didn’t seem to hear.  
  
‘Looks bad,’ she thought as she checked his vital signs first, and then examined him for major trauma. Aside from an obvious concussion, multiple lacerations, extensive bruising, and he seemed to be recovering from a fractured jaw and what felt like several broken ribs.  
  
‘Not too bad,’ Fraiser thought, mystified by the partially mended fractures. ‘It’s almost as if someone used a sarcophagus, but didn’t finish the process,’ she thought. ‘But first, things first, Janet,’ she scolded herself, ‘get the Colonel inside, do a proper exam and start treatment. You can play Quincy later.’  
  
“How is he?” Fraiser heard Sam’s voice and turned to see her slipping through the crowd with Teal’c in her wake. Fraiser smiled what she hoped was a reassuring smile and nodded to let Sam know she’d heard.  
  
As Sam closed the distance, Janet tucked a blanket around Colonel O’Neill. She pushed it close to his face to hide some of the bruises. She didn’t think; the reaction was instinct, a doctor’s need to protect a patient’s dignity, especially when the patient was Colonel O’Neill, a very private man who hated displaying any hint of human frailty.  
  
“The Colonel will be okay in time, I think,” Fraiser said when Sam was close enough to hear her. “But he’s in bad shape and I want to get him to the Infirmary immediately. There’s some work to do.” Fraiser glanced up and saw alarm on Sam’s face, a face that had been lit up like a candle a moment before. “Don’t worry, Major. He’s been worse and come through just fine.” She watched Sam relax and felt like she’d done her job, letting others get on with their jobs confident that she would take care of the wounded.  
  
“Can I speak to him?” Carter asked.  
  
“Sorry, Sam,” Fraiser said, “he passed out.”  
  
Then she turned to the soldiers beside Carter and said, “Let’s get him inside.” The soldiers hoisted the Colonel on a field litter at Fraiser’s signal and then followed her through the crowd toward the half-moon of shadow that concealed the SGC’s front door.  
  
Carter watched them disappear in the crowd, then turned and faced the two people in charge. “You have something to show me?” she said.  
  
“You are Major Carter?” M asked.  
  
“Yes. That’s right.” Carter replied, her anger at the Colonel’s condition creeping into her tone, “and this is Teal’c.”  
  
“You may call me ‘M’, everybody does,” then she continued by answering Carter’s question. “Yes, we do have something to show you. Something quite wonderful, but it is not here. You will accompany us. It shouldn’t be more than three days. We will locate the technology, instruct you in the basics of our physics and fundamental safety precautions and, if you wish, help you recover the most immediately useful items. The rest you can leave for whenever you feel prepared to recover it.  
  
“Three days,” Carter replied and looked around them at the crowd. “What do you intend to do about them in the meantime?”  
  
M considered a moment and asked, “Would your General Hammond take them as our guarantee of your safe return?”  
  
Carter shot a questioning look at Teal’c who nodded assent and said, “Yeah, I think we can do that.”  
  
“Good, Major. Thank you,” the man next to M said. He had been so silent that Carter had assumed he was part of the crowd. As he spoke, she realized he looked remarkably like Jack Kennedy, former president of the United States, but Kennedy had died. As he smiled at her, the resemblance was undeniable.  
  
Carter reacted by straightening into a ramrod straight posture and snapping a smart salute. “Mr. President,” she barked to Teal’c astonishment.  
  
Kennedy grinned and said, “At ease, Major. That was a lifetime ago. I do appreciate the courtesy. Thank you.”  
  
He extended his hand and as she took it she felt a strong, well-practiced grip. It felt like a hug from a beloved friend or parent. She smiled and said, “yes, sir.”  
  
Kennedy turned and greeted Teal’c. “I’ve read a lot about you, Teal’c. I am John F. Kennedy. I admire what you have done. I hope we can prove to you that we are not your enemies.”  
  
Teal’c bowed his head in silent acknowledgement and then said, “I am sorry to learn of the death of your brother, Robert. I am told he was a good man.”  
  
M laughed and said, “Mr. Teal’c, that is kind of you, but Bobby isn’t dead. I’m sure you’ll see him in the crowd here somewhere.”  
  
As the woman craned her neck to see if she could spot Bobby Kennedy for Teal’c, Carter thought, ‘she’s pretty, very pretty.’ The woman had an old-fashioned femininity that made Sam feel like she was wearing army boots, which she was wearing, of course.  
  
Carter cleared her throat and said, “Mr. President, ‘M’, here are the General’s conditions. First, you must return all of our people and equipment.”  
  
M nodded and said, “Done. Your people were released along with Jack O’Neill. Your weapons and other equipment will be returned immediately. What else?”  
  
“Second,” Carter continued, “the General will hold you personally responsible for our welfare. If Teal’c or I are killed, injured or even put at serious risk of harm, the General will turn your people – all three hundred of them – over to the authorities.”  
  
“You have my word, Major,” the former President said solemnly. “You will be kept safe. You may bring weapons if it will make you feel more secure.”  
  
Carter nodded and continued, “And I am under orders to maintain an open channel of communications with the General throughout the recovery operation. You are not to interfere.”  
  
The two aliens nodded agreement and Carter concluded, “Okay. I’ll contact the General to make your offer. When do we leave?”  
  
  
ΩΩΩ  
  
General Hammond immediately accepted the offer of hostages. It was an added bargaining chip with these aliens. Based on O’Neill’s recommendation and the comfort of holding more than three hundred of their people as hostages, Hammond authorized Carter and Teal’c to proceed with the recon and recovery mission. Then he ordered troops into the crowd.  
  
The civilians were herded into the tunnel entrance and held there, until they could be taken into the SGC ten at a time. Each small group was processed by Fraiser’s staff, screened for weapons: NBC (nuclear, biological or chemical) or naquida-based.  
  
Fraiser had set up a series of three secure rooms, one for holding people awaiting processing, the second for conducting tests and examinations, the third to hold people who’d been cleared. Those who passed would be escorted at gunpoint into the security rooms that the SGC sometimes used as isolation cells. If anyone failed the test, the entire facility would go into immediate lock-down.  
  
Hammond figured that, with three hundred plus people to accommodate, the security cells would get pretty crowded. ‘They need my help,’ Hammond thought. ‘If it’s a little uncomfortable, they can just deal with it.’  
  
The medical staff was already processing groups of hostages when General Hammond entered the second screening room. Everything was working smoothly. He leaned against the wall to watch.  
  
Guards escorted a group of ten people into the first room as he’d walked through. Now the aliens were being examined one at a time. As each Yult cleared, he or she was sent to wait in the third room. He figured that, at this rate, Fraiser’s staff would have the entire group processed by around midnight. That is, if nothing happened.  
  
As he stood waiting, Hammond knew Doctor Fraiser was aware of his presence. She’d glanced up as he’d entered the room, giving him immediate acknowledgement and an unspoken message that she’d join him as soon as she was free. He watched her finish explaining something to one of her technicians. She adjusted a couple of knobs on one of the scanners and then turned his way.  
  
‘She looks tired,’ Hammond thought as Fraiser crossed the room.  
  
“Hello, General. Welcome to our new secure facility,” she smiled slightly.  
  
“Doctor, things seem to be moving along well here,” Hammond said as another group of ten was escorted into the waiting area.  
  
“Yes General, it should be pretty much routine from now on. We are scanning for everything from naquida to influenza, but frankly,” she continued, “We aren’t seeing anything. These people are all in perfect physical condition. It is like checking Teal’c. They are impossibly healthy.”  
  
Hammond nodded, understanding that she was confirming that, despite appearances, these people were not human, at least no more so than the Goa’uld or Tok’Ra or, for that matter, Teal’c.  
  
“Okay. If you can leave this to your staff, may I have a minute?” he asked. At her nod, he continued. “Please tell your second in command here that we’ll be in your office. She is to contact us there immediately if anything unusual develops.”  
  
Fraiser said softly, “and I’ll bring the Colonel’s records?”  
  
Hammond just nodded, confirming that they would indeed be talking about Jack. Then he left Fraiser to her work and walked to the Doctor’s office. On the way, he stopped at the Infirmary to check on O’Neill.  
  
Hammond entered the dimly lit room silently. The night-duty nurse smiled and, at Hammond’s signal to dispense with formalities, she continued concentrating on her paperwork.  
  
Hammond gazed at the only occupied bed. Then he crossed the room. ‘Jack’s probably still out, or Doctor Fraiser would have mentioned it,” Hammond thought.  
  
The General didn’t like what he saw as he approached. Thick leather straps secured Jack’s wrists. Similar straps were at the man’s neck, ankles and probably his waist, from the lumps under the blankets. Hammond hated it, but he didn’t unbuckle the restraints,  
  
‘The Doctor is right,’ he told himself. ‘They had him for days. It’s necessary for Jack’s safety as well as ours.’  
  
As Hammond stood there, he felt his fury rise. Ugly bruising covered the man’s face, neck and arms. ‘Torture – it’s damned clear,’ he thought. ‘It’s also damned strange behavior for a group of peaceful travelers.’ Not for the first time, he wondered, ‘why did you tell me to trust these bastards, Jack? Why did you trust them, after they did this to you?’  
  
Hammond knew that Jack O’Neill was a good man and a damned fine leader, but Hammond also knew Jack was far from perfect. O’Neill was notorious for his fiercely unforgiving nature. Jack held himself accountable and held others accountable, as well. It just wasn’t in him to ‘forgive and forget.’ It certainly wasn’t typical O’Neill behavior to turn the other cheek, especially before the bruises were healed.  
  
‘‘Something else is going on here,” the General muttered as he pulled the blanket up around O’Neill’s whisker-stubbled chin. “I’m taking these people at their word, taking more than three hundred of them into the SGC on your word. So, why don’t you wake up and tell me what’s going on, Colonel?”  
  
Hammond gazed down at his 2IC, but Jack didn’t respond. The old man sighed and turned away, then walked into Doctor Fraiser’s office. He settled himself in a chair in front of the Doctor’s desk, and heard her rapid footsteps coming up the hallway. She bustled into the room a moment later carrying a thick manila folder. It held O’Neill’s medical records, the latest installment in a multi-volume set.  
  
“Sorry for the delay, General. I had to have this file pulled from the archives,” she explained, setting the folder on her desk. Then she sat, opened it and scanned the last few pages in silent concentration. When she looked up, eyebrows raised in a question, Hammond knew she was ready to talk.  
  
“So, what’s his condition, Doctor?” Hammond asked.  
  
“Not good. I’m having trouble stabilizing him. From what I can see, Colonel O’Neill appears to have been badly beaten. The damage is extensive, in fact I’ve rarely seen worse. General, from the look of it, they worked on him for a period of several days, probably since the day of the accident,” she answered.  
  
Hammond felt fire in his belly as he said, “So, they took their time about it. How can you tell, Doctor?”  
  
Fraiser ticked off the points on her fingers as she spoke, “First, the Colonel’s blood chemistry is wacky. There are very high levels of certain chemicals that a human body typically releases only under severe stress. I also found dramatically heightened levels of dopamine, a chemical that works on the pleasure center of the brain. They drugged him, Sir.”  
  
She continued. “Second, some of his internal injuries are partially healed. Frankly, the damage to his kidneys and spleen should have killed him, but somehow they’ve healed and are functioning almost within norms. I can’t explain it.”  
  
“Third, some of the wounds, superficial wounds, are fresh. I’d estimate they were still interrogating him today, or late yesterday,” she ticked off another finger, “maybe … unless…”  
  
Fraiser stopped talking, held up a finger for silence and flipped through the file. Hammond waited, respecting her need to concentrate. Then she continued, “Unless they used a sarcophagus to keep him alive, but continued interrogating him. I say that because the older, partially healed, injuries are the more life threatening.”  
  
Hammond just nodded, not trusting himself to speak. ‘Jack, you stubborn son-of-a-bitch,’ Hammond thought, ‘why didn’t you just tell them what they wanted to know and trust me to handle it?’ He closed his eyes for a moment and rubbed his forehead. When he opened his eyes again, the Doctor was gazing at him with concern.  
  
“I’m alright, Doctor,” Hammond said. “When can I speak to him?”  
  
“I don’t know, Sir. I wish I did. But there’s no telling how long he’ll be out. I have him on minimal sedatives. It’s best with head injuries. It could be minutes, or days. I’m sorry.” As Hammond said nothing, she continued, “but General, I would like to investigate this further.”  
  
“Some new device,” Hammond dreaded hearing the answer as he spoke.  
  
“It’s too soon to say, Sir. I really need to do some more analysis.” Fraiser said.  
  
“Right. Let me know when you have something.” Hammond replied as he stood and left Fraiser to get on with it.  
  
 _ **Chapter 2. The Triangle  
**_  
Sam let go and plunged back into space. An instant later she felt a cool smack against her backside and was in the midst of a cloud of bubbles. She sunk, arched her back and felt herself swing around. Through her dive mask, she could see Teal’c rapidly descending, and beyond him M and JFK, all three in neon colored wetsuits.  
Sam kicked hard a few times and closed the gap to Teal’c. Then she glanced at her compass and GPS device strapped on her left wrist. The GPS was not working. Her compass was swinging wildly. She keyed the radio and heard no signal. It was out too. ‘So much for reporting into SGC, or finding my way back without help,’ she thought, feeling again how totally dependant she and Teal’c were on the two aliens, probably the same people who’d hurt the Colonel.  
  
The four of them swam down, deeper and deeper into blue-black water. After 30 minutes, the azure blue surface had faded to a warm memory.  
  
Sam was in the cold depths, now. She shivered as her face passed into a frigid layer of water. They’d reached the thermocline, a zone where warm surface water glides over far colder, denser water, the two barely mixing. Below the thermocline, the ocean water would be far saltier, far colder and, as a result, far denser. So much so, that it had effectively shielded the wreck from probing sonar since early in World War II.  
  
Through the Cuban Missile Crisis, through the Cold War, when the United States Navy had played cat and mouse with Soviet subs all around the globe, including in these very waters, the wreck they were seeking escaped detection. Sam believed it was shielded. The water was so cold and dense that sonar waves must have ricochet off, hiding the wreck.  
  
She swam alongside Teal’c, glad for his strong presence. They pushed on, down and down. Sam realized she could barely see. She flicked on her headlamp. Teal’c did too. Below them they saw two lights glimmer. The Yult had turned on their dive lights.  
  
Sam and Teal’c closed the distance to those lights in a few minutes. Sam saw a neon-gloved hand signaling her to stop and grab onto a bright yellow descent line. She signaled back her understanding.  
  
Sam slipped a hook from her dive-belt onto the rope. Teal did the same. Then one of the others, Sam thought it was probably M from her smaller size, pulled another cord and four fresh tanks floated up from the depths.  
  
Sam pulled a couple more breaths from her tank. Then she removed the regulator from her mouth and took one of the tanks. It was fully equipped. So, she stuck the new regulator into her mouth and immediately felt the reassuring press of compressed air, ready for her to inhale.  
  
She slipped off her spent tank and handed it to one of the others, slipped the straps of the fresh tank over her arms and up onto her shoulders. She snapped the tank in place. Teal’c checked her settings. He signaled ‘okay.’ Everything checked out.  
  
Then each of the others repeated the same process. They’d descended more than three atmospheres, already. It had been hard swimming. They would continue far deeper, straight down, before they could expect to see the wreck.  
  
Whereas the first tanks contained air, a blend of gases exactly like those found in natural air, the deep-water tanks contained a special deep-dive blend. It would help avoid nitrogen narcosis at greater depths. The deep-water tanks would also alleviate the possibility of the bends when they re-surfaced. Without the special mixture, the team would have had to resurface slowly, stopping at pre-determined depths to allow nitrogen to bleed out of their bloodstream naturally. It was a delay no one wanted to endure.  
  
When everyone had donned deep-water tanks, they continued down, now guided by a descent line, four bright spots of color in an otherwise impenetrable void. These waters were dark despite the headlamps, and cold despite the deep-dive wetsuits. Sam swam without thinking, letting her legs work in a rhythm, like a runner, her thoughts absorbed by the monotonous suck and blow of her own breathing. Teal’s swim fins filled her mask. They moved up and down in a dreamy way. She felt the tug of the guideline that held her on course to the unseen wreck far below.  
  
As she watched Teal’c’s fins rise and fall, Sam’s thoughts turned to Jack O’Neill. ‘The Colonel’s alive. Daniel was right. He was out there … somewhere. But where? What happened to him? Are these aliens responsible for whatever injuries had Janet so concerned? Or did they just happen by Mercy Hospital to pick up the pieces?’ There’d been no real chance to ask and now Sam couldn’t seem to recreate the sense of relief and joy, the feeling that Colonel O’Neill would be fine.  
  
Then a hand flashed ahead, interrupting her worries. Sam swung to a stop, and hung from the guideline weightlessly. The hand jabbed a single finger into the blackness. Sam peered in the direction, saw nothing, and flicked off her dive light. The other lights disappeared and, for a moment she saw nothing except absolute darkness without form. Then her eyes adjusted to the dim light. The void and it was no longer empty. In the depths far below she saw … something.  
  
At first, it seemed like a change in texture, like the water itself had taken form. Then there was a pattern of undulation and the slightest hint of deepest purple giving further form to the blackness. The longer she looked, the more she saw, until she was able to see a bubbling curtain of deep, undulating purple. Then, behind the purple waves, she saw the wreck.  
  
If she hadn’t been expecting a ship, she’d have sworn it was a seamount. It was that big. It reared up from nothingness and, once she’s seen its slight metallic sheen, Sam tracked its presence until it disappeared far above. ‘Probably still well short of the thermocline,’ she thought. Following the rope with Teal’c’s flippers in her face through the cold, black water, her mind had drifted. She hadn’t realized that they were actually paralleling a huge structure, an alien structure the size of a small island – the wrecked spaceship of the ‘Garðr le Yult.’  
  
The size alone was impressive, but Sam was awed by something else. She was witnessing something that Physics, as she had understood it, declared impossible. She had declared it impossible when she first examined the equations that M had jotted, as ‘proof’, on a cocktail napkin on the flight to Nassau.  
  
Sam had read and reread the proof. At first, she was angry and alarmed that they were on a wild goose chase. Then after several minutes of careful study, she realized there was a pattern, a logic that had just never occurred to her before. As their five-hour flight ended on a landing strip lined with palm trees, Sam believed she would see this phenomenon. Still, knowing something can exist is very different from seeing it five meters in front of your dive mask.  
  
Sam clung to the rope as she continued cautiously onward. Her mind was working double-time. ‘Okay, the purple has got to be near ultraviolet light escaping from the ship’s force field.’ M had briefed them. She’d said that an immensely powerful magnet formed the ship’s energy core. Somehow linked to the ship’s skin, the Yult super-magnet stripped electrons from any matter it encountered. As a by-product of energy production, it generated light.  
  
At the moment, Carter knew, the skin was in contact with seawater, mostly H2O. It was tearing the water molecules apart. The result was a bubbling froth of free hydrogen and oxygen, as well as untold amounts of energy. Then, almost as soon as these elements were free, their subatomic components were realigned. The magnet flipped the electrons into highly unstable ‘anti-parallel’ spins. As the unstable electrons returned to their preferred low-level energy state, energy momentarily captured in the higher-level energy state was released again, only to be immediately devoured by the all-consuming skin of the Yult craft.  
  
‘This ship,’ Carter decided, ‘has got to be responsible for the anomalies of the Bermuda Triangle.’  
  
Sam could see it happen. The undulating purple wall was obviously low energy photons released from the seawater’s hydrogen atoms.  
  
‘The magnet inside that wreck must be unbelievably powerful,’ she thought. ‘It’s acting like a bend-magnet, actually dragging light waves back toward the ship, and accelerating them. The photons shift speed and frequency, entering the visible light range and giving the water the deep purple color. That’s why it hasn’t been detected before,’ she realized with a gasp. ‘If it can trap light, any waves that contact the ship’s skin -- sonar, radar, whatever -- are trapped! No waves bounce back, no object can be detected. It’s the ultimate stealth technology. In a few hours I’ll know how it works.’  
  
The others had already started their final descent when Sam tore her eyes from the wreck. She shook off her revelry in theoretical physics. ‘Theoretical might not be exactly the right term anymore,’ she thought with a grin that threatened to break her masks’ seal, and eagerly closed the distance. As she swam, it was like slipping through a water-filled prism. From a distance Sam had seen only the highest frequency wavelengths escaping, the ultraviolet. Now, as she closed on the wreck, the color around her shifted. She swam through a wash of every color in the rainbow, from deep purple to lavender; lavender to blue, blue to aqua to green to yellow and finally orange to red.  
  
As she left the orange band, Sam felt a sudden pleasant shift in water temperature and realized she was in a zone of warming water. A moment later, the water turned blood red. She realized that the warm water had suddenly become very hot water, and then boiling water. Before she could reverse course, there was a sudden ‘whoosh.’  
  
Sam was sucked forward through intensely bubbling heat. The next thing she knew she was flat on her back in a receding pool of steaming water. She looked around.  
  
She was on the floor of what looked like a massive domed sports stadium, without bleachers. The space was huge. It curved upward so far that she lost all sense of scale. The walls looked smooth. They emitted a faint peach glow that made everything look like it had been recorded on an old 8-millimeter home movie system. There was a thrumming coming from everywhere.  
  
Teal’c was alongside her, sitting up, looking around, apparently fine. M and JFK appeared from somewhere behind her as Sam pulled off her mask to look around for them.  
  
“You okay, Teal’c?” she asked.  
  
“I am,” came the usual reply, “and you Major Carter?”  
  
“Fine, thanks,” Sam grunted, taking M’s offered hand and pulling herself to her feet. They stripped off the tanks and dive weights and dropped them to the floor of the craft with resounding clunks. Then stowed the gear near a hatch.  
  
Sam asked, “What happened?”  
  
M raised her eyebrows in surprise and exclaimed, “I thought you understood from the equation. Close to the ship the energy moves from near infrared to …”  
  
“Heat!” Sam finished the thought. “Of course! So how did we come through the hot water so fast?”  
  
JFK smiled and said, “There’s a code. I’ll show you. I used it to open a hatch remotely when we were within range. Then the pressure gradient carried us through along with enough cold water to make our passage survivable.”  
  
Sam smiled at JFK and said, “Cool. Nice ship, by the way.”  
  
JFK smiled and replied, “Yes, my family has always had very nice ships.”  
  
 _ **Chapter 3. Strong Medicine  
**_  
General Hammond motioned Doctor Fraiser to take a seat. She had asked for time on Hammond’s schedule. She sat across the desk from him, Hammond asked, “Is this about your further study of what was done to Colonel O’Neill?”  
  
Fraiser nodded. “ Yes, General. It’s bad and seems to be getting steadily worse. Frankly, I’ve never seen anything quite like it. Except …”  
  
Fraiser stopped speaking. Hammond saw her hesitate and prepared himself for bad news.  
  
“Except what, Doctor?” he urged.  
  
“Except, when I treated Apophis, Sir. When he died,” she concluded.  
  
“After demanding sanctuary,” Hammond added, hoping to elicit more details.  
  
“Yes, Sir,” the Doctor continued. “After his symbiot died, Apophis aged rapidly. I couldn’t stop it. But it wasn’t all at once. It was more like a fast-forwarding process.  
  
With the Colonel, it is more like something is rewinding the healing process. He came to us in bad shape, but nothing I couldn’t fix. I took immediate steps to stabilize him. They haven’t worked. Instead he’s gotten steadily worse.”  
  
Hammond steepled his fingers and chose his next words with great care. “Sometimes a patient is just beyond medical care, Doctor. Even yours…”  
  
“No, General. Not this patient, not these injuries and not this man. He was hurt but nothing challenging, nothing I couldn’t treat. Jack O’Neill isn’t a man to give up, Sir. It’s something else, General. I’m certain,” Fraiser shot back.  
  
“Something you missed?” Hammond asked.  
  
Fraiser’s brown eyes dropped. She sighed. “That’s occurred to me, Sir. I’m not perfect. I asked the other internists to verify my work. I had another doctor perform an independent exam. They’ve double and triple checked everything, Sir. They can’t account for it, either.”  
  
Hammond waited for the rest of it.  
  
“What I can say, General Hammond, is the Colonel’s getting worse not better. I can’t stop it. As of now, I am treating the symptoms and doing my best to make him comfortable,” she concluded.  
  
Hammond wanted to say something comforting to Fraiser. She was clearly doing all that could be done and blaming herself for not finding the silver bullet they’d all come to expect of her. “Doctor, if anyone can help Colonel O’Neill, it’s you. You have my complete confidence. You know you have Jack’s, as well, I’m sure. Do what you can for him.”  
  
At that her professional composure nearly cracked and Hammond wondered if he should have left the last part out. ‘Of course Jack trusts her, dammit. She’s saved him more times than I can count,’ the General silently fumed. To the bleary eyed physician, he decided to throw a rope. “Tell me this, Doctor. What was done to Jack?”  
  
She replied automatically, “Signs of major trauma, most partially healed, several life-threatening. They’d have been fatal, if they hadn’t somehow mended. Now, the mending process is going to other way.”  
  
Hammond interrupted, “What I’m asking is how he was injured. What exactly caused the damage?”  
  
Fraiser nodded and said, “I see. Well, General, the pattern seems very close to the injuries documented by Mercy Hospital. In fact, I’d say they are almost exactly the same, Sir. Except, as I reported to you last week, I was confident those injuries had killed Colonel O’Neill, even without seeing a body.” She frowned and paused.  
  
“So, it really doesn’t make sense that he’s alive.” Hammond said. “Did the Yult use a sarcophagus to revive him?” Hammond asked.  
  
“Maybe, General, but it’s puzzling. From past experiences with the Goa’uld sarcophagus, we know it repairs all injuries to a human body, completely and at the same time. It leaves no marks at all, Sir.” Fraiser answered, continuing, “If they’d healed the Colonel and then tortured him, the injury pattern would show differences. There should be new injuries. There should be something not documented at Mercy Hospital.”  
  
“There aren’t any new wounds, Sir. The Colonel’s only injuries are an exact match for those documented in the Mercy Hospital records. It seems possible…” she stopped again.  
  
Hammond barked impatiently, “What!”  
  
“Sir, the Colonel might not have been tortured at all,” Fraiser answered, her voice almost a whisper.  
  
“Well, if they have a way to heal him and want our help, why in Sam Hill would the Yult send him back to us half-dead?” Hammond challenged her. “They’d know our first reaction would be that they’d tortured him for information. What could they possibly hope to gain from that sort of deception?”  
  
Fraiser shook her head thoughtfully, “I’m mystified sir. The only possibility that occurs to me is that …” she paused but continued when Hammond fixed her with an angry glare. “I don’t have enough information to make this sort of charge,” she pleaded, but continued as Hammond sat in stony silence.  
  
“Sir, if the Colonel cooperated, helped them and they wanted to protect him …” Fraiser dropped her eyes with shame at the mention of it.  
  
“Cooperated?” Hammond stammered. “Cooperated! O’Neill? Just look at him, Doctor! No, I don’t believe that for an instant. That’s not what happens to people who cooperate with the enemy!”  
  
Fraiser didn’t lift her eyes, but spoke quietly, “Unless the enemy was afraid we’d find out. Then he’d be shot.”  
  
  
ΩΩΩ  
  
A few hours later, Jack stirred against the restraints and groaned between clamped teeth. Janet, asleep in a chair at his bedside, and opened her eyes at the sound. She leaned forward and gazed down into his eyes. The right eye had swollen completely shut. The left had the too-bright sheen of fever. She touched Jack’s forehead. It was hot and dry.  
  
He groaned again and his lips moved. She placed a finger over his cracked lips and said, “Don’t try to talk, Colonel. You’re all right. We’ve got you, Jack.” She brushed damp hair from his forehead and said, “You’ll be fine, but you need to take it easy now.”  
  
He tried to lift a hand to push her away, tried to sit up, but the restraints held him down. She heard him speak through clenched teeth.  
  
“Gggett Hammond for me,” he ground out, ‘need ‘t speak to him, ‘meed-yt-lee. You understand?”  
  
Janet sighed. The Colonel was always difficult, but this was ridiculous. “No, Colonel. You’re going back to sleep.” But something in his tone told her it was not to be and he growled again, “Now, Doc. Need ‘t speak, now!”  
  
She nodded, “Okay. You win.” ‘No sense arguing when I know the General wants to talk to you too Colonel,’ she thought as she turned and walked to her office. She rang the General’s office. He was still at his desk working too, even though it was past midnight.  
  
“Yes?” Hammond’s voice sounded tired.  
  
“The Colonel has regained consciousness and he’s insisting on talking to you, General,” Fraiser explained.  
  
“Insisting, is he? Well, that’s fine, Doctor. I’ll be down as soon as possible,” Hammond said and hung up.  
  
As she waited for the General to appear, Janet walked back to Jack’s bed and stuck a thermometer in his ear. She checked the reading, thinking, ‘102, that’s too high,’ and then saw the look on Jack’s face. She bent down so only he would hear and said softly, “It’s not your fault, you know, Colonel. They forced you.” She saw a tear gather in the corner of his eye, but rubbed it away with her thumb.  
  
  
ΩΩΩ  
  
General Hammond pressed the button at the bottom of the phone, connecting him to the Airman sitting outside his office. “Have Doctor Jackson join me in my office, please.” Hammond said.  
  
It was late, after midnight already, but Hammond had asked Daniel to wait at the SGC, not that wild horses could have torn him away with O’Neill back, quite literally, from the dead. Daniel had immediately asked to see Jack and had been pretty upset when he was told the Colonel would be in surgery and then in recovery for most of the evening.  
  
Hammond had assured Jackson that he could stop by the Infirmary for a visit in the morning, and Daniel had to be satisfied with that promise. Doctor Fraiser had been adamant that she needed time to put the pieces back together.  
  
Hammond had long been concerned about paradoxes inherent in Goa’uld biology. He hadn’t ever had time, or a clear need, to have the experts pin it down. Now, he had three hundred or more of these Yult in detention, god-knows how many others possibly still out there on the loose somewhere, Hammond decided it was high time he found out. He also had a gut feeling that anyone who would let Jack O’Neill suffer so, when they had the means to help him, weren’t likely to be peaceful travelers. ‘More likely just homegrown versions of the damnedable Goa’uld,’ he decided.  
  
As he waited for the knock on his door, General Hammond closed his eyes for what seemed like a brief moment. When there was a rap on his door, he opened his eyes. Hammond realized he’d been asleep at his desk for fifteen minutes. He’d probably pulled Daniel out of bed for the meeting. ‘Well, war is hell sometimes,’ he thought, ‘even for civilians.’  
  
Daniel entered at Hammond’s call to come in. It was clear that the young man had been asleep, in his clothes from the look of him. Daniel’s hair was askew. His eyes were still blurry from being aroused after far too little sleep.  
  
“Would you like some coffee, Doctor Jackson?” Hammond offered.  
  
“Please,” Daniel answered. “How’s Jack?”  
  
“We’ll know more in the morning,” Hammond said without enthusiasm. In fact, he only knew Jack was awake. He had no idea whether the man was better, worse or unchanged. His first concern, safety of the SGC, had driven all other concerns from his mind for the time being. Daniel’s question brought O’Neill’s dilemma back to the forefront, a painful jolt. It showed on Hammond’s face.  
  
Daniel noted the General’s grim reaction. He started to ask permission to visit the Infirmary, but Hammond silenced him by launching into his assignment.  
  
“Doctor Jackson,” the General said, “I want you to review the files on Hathor’s visit and your findings on P3X-888. You oversaw the dig there. Before the Unas abducted you, you reported finding the progenitor of the Goa’uld. Do I remember that correctly?”  
  
“Yes, General.” Daniel answered. “We found fossils of adult larvae with indications that the Goa’uld larvae could live independently of a host and had more than likely evolved on P3X-888.”  
  
“Since then, Doctor, have you developed any theories on how it is that Hathor was able to generate larvae, yet those on P3X-888 can reproduce totally independent of any host?” the General asked. Daniel hesitated.  
  
Hammond continued, “It may be important. I’d like you to start work immediately on pinning that down.”  
  
“You want me to research Goa’uld reproductive biology?” Daniel asked, sneaking a glance at his wristwatch.  
  
“I know it’s very late, or rather very early, Doctor. Please assemble a team in the morning and start on this research. Keep me apprised of your progress. Plan on briefing me within 48-hours at the latest,” Hammond said. “I need to know as much as possible about the ‘guests’ I have taken into the SGC. I need to know whether they pose a threat to my personnel or to this facility. I need to know the likelihood that we have a resident Goa’uld population on Earth that we just haven’t discovered, until now. Your research will be crucial to finding these answers.”  
  
Daniel rubbed his eyes and yawned, “Yes, General. Is there anything else?”  
  
“No, Son. Get some sleep. You can wait until morning to start. Sorry to have awoken you at this ungodly hour, but I don’t know what I’ll have on my plate in the morning and I wanted to get you started before god-knows-what else happens.” Hammond explained.  
  
Daniel realized then just how exhausted the General looked. Hammond was so energetic and enthused about his work that it was easy to forget he was an old man. Hammond had been about to retire when the Star Gate program had suddenly, unexpectedly revved up again.  
  
In the past ten days, he’d been through the wringer. Since Jack’s disappearance, Hammond had managed a massive investigation, had then mourned his close friend’s apparent death, all while running the SGC without a second in command. Yesterday, he’d personally put down an incursion single-handed. In the near future, the General would address the possibility that he had hundreds of potentially dangerous aliens in detention and an unknown number of others running around loose.  
  
Daniel knew the old man wouldn’t be getting any sleep any time soon. He said, “General, I’ll get right on it. I can’t sleep anyway.”  
  
Hammond smiled and said, “Thank you Doctor. Dismissed.” Daniel stood and headed to his office to begin his new research project – basic Goa’uld reproduction 101.  
  
  
ΩΩΩ  
  
A few minutes later, the General was at the Infirmary. Doctor Fraiser met him at the door and whispered, “The Colonel’s awake, Sir and insists on talking to you.” Then Fraiser silently gestured toward her office. Hammond nodded and led the way.  
  
As she joined him, Janet said, “The Colonel’s not doing any better. His temperature has gone up and I don’t like his other vital signs. So, the point is, General, take it easy on him and keep the conversation short, okay?”  
  
Hammond nodded and said, “I’ll do my best, Doctor, but there are some things I need to know.”  
  
As George walked toward Jack’s bed, he wondered whether the soft or hard approach would be better. He looked down at O’Neill and said, “Take your time, Jack, and tell me what it is I need to know.”  
  
Jack opened his eye and slurred fiercely, “I t’ld ‘m everyt’ng, G’rg. Everyt’ng!”  
  
“Right, Colonel. I understand what you are telling me,” Hammond said brusquely, deciding on the tough approach. “Now, let’s get to the point. If these people were pumping you for information, why did you tell me to trust them? Why did you let me send Carter and Teal’c on a mission with them? What the hell were you thinking, Colonel O’Neill?”  
  
Jack blinked and faded out, then worked his mouth, doing his best to answer. “C’dn’t let them down. C’dn’t let you blow the mountain. Their weapons are too powerful, c’dn’t pass ‘em up. C’dn’t find a better way.  
  
“So on your recommendation, I trusted these people. Now Major Carter and Teal’c are off somewhere relying on the same bastards that did this to you. That’s your team out there, what about their trust, Colonel?”  
  
Jack couldn’t seem to form words, but George saw a gleam of anger in O’Neill’s eye and thought, ‘There you go, Jack. Pull it together, Colonel. Focus on the problem for me, forget about the rest of that crap.’  
  
He pressed harder then, “So, what’s your assessment Colonel O’Neill? Is this facility in danger?”  
  
O’Neill’s eyes had closed, but he growled, “Yes, Sir. D’mned right it is.”  
  
Jack stopped speaking. Hammond thought he might have drifted off again, but just as he was about to turn away, Jack hissed fiercely.  
  
“I helped them. Gunna lead a mission ‘gainst SGC. Double-crossed. D’ n’t trust ‘em, George. Blame me. I’m a f’gg’ng traitor.”  
  
Hammond watched Jack sink into the pillows, spent from the look of him. Sweat shone on his pale forehead and trickled down his bruised cheek. But Hammond noted the clenched muscles of Jack’s jaw. He was tensed and waiting for the hammer to fall. The General took a deep breath and let him have it.  
  
“Colonel O’Neill, you actions, as you tell them, go way beyond treason. If they’re true, I’ll have you put against a wall and shot. You, however, are in no position to know what was done to you. I’m leaving that up to the Doctor to determine. As for blaming you, you’d better pray that no one dies because of you, O’Neill. If that happens, you’re damned right it’s on you, and on me for trusting a stupid son-of-a-bitch. I’m recalling Sam and Teal’c immediately. I’m locking down the facility and doubling the guards on your pals, the Yult.”  
  
At that, the jaw muscles unclenched and Hammond smiled inside, satisfied that Jack might now move past the need to confess. He might even do what Doctor Fraiser told him to do for a change.  
  
To be certain, Hammond continued. “So, here’s what you are going to do, Colonel. While I make up my mind what to do with you, no bitching, none of your usual antics. You’ve burned your last bridge with me. You will cooperate with Doctor Fraiser in all ways. You will rest and recover as fast as humanly possible. As soon as Doctor Fraiser approves it, you will write a full report of what exactly happened to you, including your reasons, if you have any, for spilling your guts to the enemy. Is that perfectly clear?”  
  
Jack nodded once and muttered, “Yes, Sir,” as he went straight to sleep.  
  
Hammond’s face lost its glower and he smiled as he turned to walk away, only to find Doctor Fraiser blocking his way.  
  
She hissed, “That’s taking it easy?”  
  
Hammond took her by the elbow and led her away toward her office. Once there, he sat and said, “I apologize for being hard on your patient, Doctor. I needed Jack to verify what I suspected. Something very dangerous is going on here. Doctor, that’s not the Jack O’Neill I know. It sounds like they got to him. Find out how, Doctor. Something must explain this.”  
  
“You didn’t believe his confession?” Janet asked in relief.  
  
“Knowing Jack O’Neill like I do? No,” Hammond countered, “but he believes it. Now it’s up to us, up to you. I need an explanation for his uncharacteristic behavior. I need something to protect him. I need something to tell him when he’s ready to hear it. As for bawling Jack out, if I hadn’t given him hell, he’d have been beating himself up and fretting over it until I did. It would have slowed his recovery; it would have caused both of us no end of pain and it would have done no earthly good. Now that he’s got it off his chest and thinks he’s being officially reprimanded, he can move on, I hope.”  
  
“That’s pretty strong medicine, General.” Fraiser said, but George noted that she didn’t disagree with his prescription.  
  
  
ΩΩΩ  
  
Forty-five minutes later Doctor Fraiser sat at her desk with the result of a new blood series she’d ordered on Jack O’Neill. She traced her fingers across the printout again to be sure, then turned to her computer and accessed the data files on the condition of the SGC males following Hathor’s visit. O’Neill’s blood work showed an almost perfect match. ‘They’re nearly identical.’ she thought. She punched the speed dial for the General’s office. An airman answered.  
  
“I need to speak to the General immediately,” she snapped.  
  
“One moment, Doctor,” the young man said and she heard him switch hook her to the General’s direct line. The phone rang once and Hammond picked up.  
  
“Yes?” he said.  
  
“General, this is Doctor Fraiser. It’s bad news, I’m afraid. I have the Colonel’s blood work back. Its clear he was under biochemical influence. His blood chemistry is very close to the data I collected when Hathor took control of the SGC males. The data is almost identical, General.”  
  
Janet heard a sigh on the other end of the phone and then Hammond said, “Doctor that explains why the Colonel cooperated. It is good news. Thank you. So, you think they were trying to hide that fact from us by making us believe they forced him?”  
  
“So far that’s my best guess. Either way, I believe we need to take immediate precautions to ensure the Yult don’t have the same effect on the rest of us, especially their guards.”  
  
“Start now,” Hammond ordered. “Move the Colonel to a secure facility, in case they tampered with him in other ways. Use the lead-lined rooms at level 45. Stay with him if you need to, Doctor, but keep me informed.”  
  
Then the line went dead and Janet heard the General’s voice ring over the PA system an instant later, “Attention, all personnel take MOP 5 precautions, all personnel are to don their MOP gear immediately. This is not a drill, repeat this is not a drill.”  
  
Janet walked over to her locker, feeling the fatigue of 15 hours on duty. She pulled out her protective gear and put it on.  
  
‘How in hell am I going to make any progress reading through this damned plastic screen? It’s going to be a long night,’ she thought. Then she notified her staff of an all-staff meeting in 15 minutes.  
  
 _ **Chapter 4. Bermuda Quadratic  
**_  
Carter grunted at the effort, as she helped the others drag another of the four units of the “Quadratic Generator” across the floor. ‘Why does advanced technology always seem to still boil down to brute force?’ she wondered as she willed her aching fingers to hold for another five steps. They were preparing to leave the amazing ship, after too few hours of orientation and instruction. It had begun with a tour.  
  
After dropping their gear, including the thick wet suits, the Yult had lead Teal’c and Sam through the ship. Although she’d stripped down to her bathing suit, she wasn’t cold. The ship maintained an even temperature of what felt like 80 degrees. The tour was actually only of part of the original ship, the core where the power and major systems controls were housed. All the rest had been destroyed, either burning up on re-entry or flying apart upon the impact with the surface of the Atlantic Ocean.  
  
The core, the nerve and power centers of the ship had plunged into the ocean and settled on the bottom. There, the power-magnet had digested the surrounding matter, eating away rock, sediment and water, causing the huge core to settle deeper and deeper into the earth’s crust.  
  
Now Sam felt certain she understood the reason for the Bermuda Triangle. The same power system that digested the rock below was digesting the water above the ship, forming a column of energy that probably spanned a quarter mile of ocean surface. The zone, although very dangerous to anyone encountering it, was also nearly invisible, because the power core constantly pulled light back on itself to be sucked into the ship’s energy systems. Above? Carter thought there might be a black spot on the planet’s surface, visible from Space, or maybe nothing visible at all. She would make a point of finding out as soon as she returned to the SGC.  
  
As they skirted the pulsing center, M suggested that they leave the core until last in their dismantling of the ship.  
  
Carter thought aloud, “or maybe we’ll just leave it in place and turn this thing into an underwater Physics lab.”  
  
Teal’c nodded and said, “and establish a secure no-fly zone to prevent the loss of airplanes.”  
  
JFK smiled and said, “Good luck with that. When I tried it, we nearly went to war with Cuba.”  
  
Teal’c nodded and continued, “May we see the weapon’s systems?”  
  
M replied, “We have none, Mr. Teal’c. As we told your Colonel O’Neill, we are peaceful travelers.”  
  
“Then why are we here?” Carter demanded, suddenly concerned they’d been double-crossed.  
  
M lifted her arm, in a move very like Vanna White, and said, “This, is our objective, Major. You would call it a “Quadratic Generator.”  
  
“Only if I knew what that meant,” Carter quipped, staring at the column.  
  
“Quadratic, or four-part,” JFK stated, “ Generator, well of course that means generator.”  
  
“And where are the four-parts?” Teal’c asked gazing up at the column.  
  
“Ah,” JFK replied, “that’s where it gets really interesting!”  
  
“Essentially, the four parts are sections of the column. Each part works like an energy echo-chamber, or perhaps more like a block and tackle,” M continued.  
  
“Magnifying force?” Carter said.  
  
“Yes, this magnifies power, as many fold as you desire.” JFK stated proudly.  
  
“It will explode,” Teal’c asserted, “will it not?”  
  
Carter nodded agreement, “Yeah, if you are talking about setting up a feedback loop, we know how to do that. It’s dangerous. At some point the force of the energy exceeds the capabilities of the equipment and it blows.”  
  
M smiled and stated, “Because you do not have a power-skin.”  
  
“Power-skin?” Carter raised her brows, “no, I guess we don’t have one of those. What is it?”  
  
“It lines these chambers, just as it connects the skin of the ship to the power core. It allows you to bleed off energy, any amount you desire.” M explained, “The more power present, the more active the skin becomes. Essentially this is a perpetual energy machine.”  
  
Carter stood with her hands on her hips, head back gazing up at the column of light and said nothing. She was grinning like a kid on Christmas morning.  
  
The next hours were spent in detailed instruction on how to dismantle and re-build the BQ as Carter dubbed it. Carter worked quickly, eager to complete the process, but mindful that this was her only opportunity to learn from the inventors of this amazing technology. She was relieved when M declared they had practiced enough and could transport the BQ to the surface.  
  
Now, they finished dragging the last unit to the hatch. The plan was to connect one of the units to the ship skin near the hatch, activate it and blow the hatch. At the instant the water entered, the unit would be activated, magnifying the already considerable energy of the ship. Hypothetically, the surrounding water and crust would be digested and for a moment a void would exist. The idea was to be sucked into the void outside the ship and, as water rushed back into the space, the hatch would slam shut behind them, sealing the ship. Then they just needed to attach lines to the BQs and ascend to the waiting ship.  
  
‘Theoretically it should work,’ Carter thought again as she pulled her mask down and held it hard against her face. ‘Theoretically.’  
  
 _ **Chapter 5. Families & Other Strangers  
**_  
By mid-day, Daniel had a working theory.  
  
After his mid-night meeting with General Hammond, Daniel had walked down the hall to his office, stopped off on the way for an urn of strong coffee. He spent the rest of the night going through his files and notes.  
  
First, he re-read his notes on ‘Cleo’, the fossil remains of what they’d thought was a Goa’uld prototype discovered on P3X-888. Much of the information had been lost with the death of Dr. Robert Rothman. A Goa’uld larva from the population that infested the waters of P3X-888 had infected Rothman. Daniel’s own memories of his work were clouded by the fear and exhaustion. Moments after the discovery of Cleo, he was attacked and dragged off by an Unas.  
  
Daniel remembered how Jack had come for him. He rubbed his eyes and kept digging through the files. He kept at it. By 8:00 am, Doctor Patrice Hollyoak, Ph.D. in genetics, would be in her office. Daniel had left a voice mail after leaving General Hammond’s office. He also left messages for the SGC’s only wildlife biologist, Genna Thrip, and her office mate, entomologist, Joshua Ramsfurd.  
  
The other scientists clumped into his office slightly after 8:00 am, all wearing the dreaded MOP gear. When everyone was settled, Daniel briefed them on their assignment – to explain Goa’uld reproductive biology, based on data they’d collected from Hathor’s visit and the Unas’ home planet expeditions.  
  
Daniel let the others kick around a few ideas before he posed the central question. “So, what are the possible explanations of two widely divergent methods of reproduction?” Daniel kept his personal theories to himself for the moment.  
  
“Divergent evolution,” Patrice offered, her voice muffled by the MOP hood.  
  
“You would say that,” countered Genna, “that way you’ll get off-world, at last!” Daniel didn’t see the face, but the comment identified Genna immediately as the source.  
  
Patrice pulled a face, visible only to Daniel, and started to reply. Joshua interrupted her retort. “What makes you think they are ‘widely divergent’ methods of reproduction, Daniel?”  
  
“Well, the reproductive forms are totally different,” Daniel offered. “One is parasitic, the other isn’t. That’s just for starters.”  
  
“Maybe they just seem different. Maybe they are two paths to the same endpoint.” Ramsfurd continued.  
  
“Or reasonable biological responses to vastly different environmental forces,” Patrice followed-up, sticking her tongue out at Genna, who just grinned back wolfishly through her hood.  
  
Daniel smiled too. He’d had the same thought, but hadn’t wanted to bias the team. “Explain that to me,” he said, letting the others run with the idea.  
  
By the end of three hours of debate and no coffee, they had a plausible theory. Daniel punched the speed-dial on his telephone and, using the speakerphone attachment, asked to see General Hammond as soon as possible.  
  
Daniel glanced at his watch as he clumped down the hall toward the VIP quarters, now serving as detention cells for Senator Kennedy. He realized he couldn’t see his watch through the MOP gear. He stuck his head into the nearest office to peer at a walk clock. He had a briefing for the General in fifteen minutes, but there was something he hoped to pin down first.  
  
Daniel was stopped at the door to the Senator’s VIP quarters by an imposing guard. Daniel explained that he would like to speak to the prisoner. She asked to see his orders. He explained that he had none, but he was a civilian and didn’t need orders. She told him to go away.  
  
A few minutes later, Daniel returned at a lumbering trot with orders hastily scribbled out by the General. He presented them to the guard. She smiled a gorgeous thank you and admitted him. Daniel made a mental note to remember to always carry orders, if Sergeant Shirley Stone was on guard duty. It paid great dividends.  
  
“Senator Kennedy,” Daniel said with a certain hesitance. “I wonder if I could speak to you about your … people.”  
  
Kennedy fixed him with a cold stare and said, “You mean the citizens of the great State of Massachusetts? They’re the only people who are my people, unless you are speaking about my family, Doctor Jackson.”  
  
“Well, Senator, in a way I think I probably am speaking of your family.” Daniel continued, “For example, how is it that your brother, JFK, was seen outside the complex yesterday with Marilyn Monroe?”  
  
“Why are you all running around in MOP gear, Doctor Jackson?” Kennedy asked, ignoring the questions.  
  
“Orders,” Daniel growled without elaborating.  
  
When there was no further response from the Senator, Daniel tried again. “How is it that you were guarding the Star Gate in World War II with your brother Bobby Kennedy at your side? By my calculations he should have been about 15 and you should have been 12 years old.” Daniel shoved Earnest Littlefield’s photograph across the table to the Senator. “You were big for your age, Senator.”  
  
Kennedy’s impassive face broke into a sudden smile and he gave a short bark of laughter. “You’re right of course. We took a risk that no one would ever connect those two young men with our public persona. Congratulations, you’re a better detective than anyone in Hoover’s FBI. Hoover had them all over us during my brother’s Administration and they never made the link.”  
  
“Yeah, well none of them are Doctors of Archeology, I guess,” Daniel answered.  
  
“I imagine that would be excellent training for working with government records,” Kennedy laughed. “I should get one of you fellows on my staff.”  
  
Daniel smiled and continued, “Senator, I want to speak about your family. I understand from the little Jack O’Neill has been able to tell us that you’ve been on Earth for a long time.”  
  
Kennedy just looked at him, waiting for a question. So Daniel continued, “How long, Senator?”  
  
Kennedy gave a shrug, like ‘what does it matter now’ and said, “Centuries. I’d estimate we arrived when your civilization was entering the early Bronze Age, Doctor Jackson.” Kennedy said.  
  
Daniel nodded, thinking ‘I’d love to spend time just talking to him about what he’s experienced!’ but continued on another theme for the time. “What do you call yourselves, Senator?”  
  
Kennedy raised his brows and answered, “The Garðr le yult. What does it matter, Doctor Jackson?”  
  
Daniel smiled and translated, “The ‘Guardians of Youth’ what a wonderful name for it. “  
  
Kennedy seemed to warm to the conversation then. “Yes, it’s a beautiful thing, a balance of two species united for the greater good of both.”  
  
“How does it work, exactly?” Daniel asked.  
  
“That’s a highly personal question, Doctor.” Kennedy exclaimed. “I’m not comfortable revealing the intimate details of my sex life to a stranger, even if you are a Doctor of Archeology.”  
  
Daniel fixed the Senator with a stony look and said, “Also a Doctor of Linguistics. ‘Guardians of Youth’ is certainly one meaning of your race-name, Senator. Let me offer another. I think it also means ‘Garden of the Young.’”  
  
“I think your people blend with Goa’uld not just because of the benefits it brings, but because you are the sexual reproductive stage of that species. Are you even two different species, Senator, or just two vastly different expressions of the same genetic material? On P3X-888, we found Goa’uld larvae living without hosts, reproducing without hosts, but we know the Goa’uld create larvae from a ‘queen.’”  
  
Kennedy said nothing. He didn’t move a muscle. So, Daniel continued. “I think that the Goa’uld we found on P3X-888 were an example of asexual reproduction by the species. Whereas, your form is the sexual stage, the stage that develops when harsh environmental conditions require a reshuffling of your genetics to adapt to changing conditions. Prove to me I am wrong, Senator.”  
  
Kennedy frowned and shook his head. “Close, high marks for being close to the answer. In fact, there is only one sexual form among us, at least in the sense that you mean: The Mother, the ‘queen’ as you call it. We call her ‘Móðir.’ We are, otherwise, essentially human. Males and females have relations and reproduce offspring, but we blend through union with ‘Móðir.’ She seeds our children with a young Goa’uld, while they are still in the womb.”  
  
“Hermaphroditic!” Daniel said realizing the connections, “Hermaphrodites!”  
  
Kennedy nodded, “Móðir is both male and female. She has the power to create life and to sew it. Through that miracle, we exist as a blended race.”  
  
“And there’s only one, Móðir?” Daniel asked to be absolutely clear.  
  
“Yes,” Kennedy answered.  
  
“Who is that person?” Daniel asked.  
  
“The most lovely creature to walk the face of this benighted rock,” Kennedy said wearily.  
  
Daniel suddenly got it, smiled and said, “Marilyn Monroe.”  
  
  
ΩΩΩ  
  
Doctor Fraiser stripped off her MOP gear and headed for the showers. She’d worked through the night again, dozing off and on in a chair beside the Colonel’s bed.  
  
It had been a brutal night. Jack fought for his life as Janet Fraiser, his friend and physician, watched helplessly. Through the early evening the Colonel hardly stirred. A few hours before, severe breaks had inexplicably ‘appeared’ along his ribcage. Fluid buildup made Jack work hard for each ragged breath. Janet had drowsed beside him, hearing his short, rapid gasps. It seemed to sap all his energy.  
  
Just after midnight, his temperature soared, rocketing to 109 degrees. His organs were shutting down. Janet put him on dialysis. She fought the fever with icepacks pressed against Jack’s neck and under his arms and knees.  
  
As her team worked, he’d moaned, struggled violently against the cold and barked unintelligible orders, fighting some imagined battle. He was sweating and swearing, taken by delirium, suddenly strong again.  
  
Janet’s heart sank. The words of her professors droned in her ears. ‘Energy seems to flare in the hours immediately preceding death.’  
  
She’d dismissed her staff and went on with her solitary vigil, replacing the melted ice and wiping the Colonel’s burning body with alcohol to draw out the heat. An overwhelming sense of futility gripped her as he continued to ramble.  
  
Near oh-three hundred hours, the hour so many patients die, Janet bent close and spoke to her friend, “Jack, don’t go. Please, fight.”  
  
To her shock, his eyes opened. He turned to her and grabbed her wrist. He seemed fully aware.  
  
“I’m sorry,” he said breathlessly. “Forgive me, please.”  
  
Fraiser smiled into his sad eyes and said, “It wasn’t your fault. No one blames you. It’s okay.”  
  
“No. It’s not. I betrayed my command. I betrayed you. I sent you with them. Come back, Sam. Please. Don’t leave.”  
  
Janet felt hot tears on her cheeks as she looked into the pleading eyes of her friend and told him lies. “I forgive you, Jack. I’ll come back, I promise.”  
  
His eyes closed and his grip loosened on her wrist. When she pulled away there were five deep purple bands across her forearm.  
  
The fever continued, but the passions were gone. Through the rest of the weary night, she caught the name Samantha, interlaced with snatches of his muttering. It made her yearn to put him under and let death come painlessly.  
  
The day shift took over. Doctor Fraiser swiftly completed her rounds of the aliens in detention. Then she ordered her staff to re-run the blood work on all Yult guards and security personnel. She attended Daniel Jackson’s briefing on basic theories of Goa’uld reproduction. Sometime during the night, she’d begun to think of the Yult and Goa’uld as synonymous.  
  
At the briefing, Daniel had theorized that only the Móðir, in this case only the creature known as Marilyn Monroe, was dangerous. She alone would have the pheromone-driven power to control men that they’d first experienced with Hathor. Fraiser agreed with Daniel’s theories. She offered her data on the guards and O’Neill as proof. Each rework of the Colonel’s blood levels showed a drop in the chemicals associated with Hathor. That showed that, whatever had been the source, it was not currently in the SGC. Janet left the meeting expecting Hammond’s order to stow MOP gear. She had just returned to her office when the announcement came.  
  
A cool shower would feel so good after thirty hours inside the awkward protective suit. Her entire body smelled like neoprene and she was really looking forward to washing her hair. As she headed for the showers, hoping to beat the other six women in the facility to the three showers designated females only, her beeper buzzed.  
  
It was the Colonel.  
  
Fraiser sprinted for an elevator, punched the down button repeatedly. When it still didn’t come, she dashed into the stairwell and ran down the seven flights two steps at a time. She reached the isolation cell on the 45th floor just as the day team was stripping away pillows and linens for unobstructed access during resuscitation. Someone was charging the paddles as she walked over to the bed and lifted Jack’s chart. A glance at the monitors showed he’d flat-lined.  
  
Janet held a hand out for epinephrine, grabbed the heavy steel shot and brought her fist down hard against his sternum, jabbing the business end directly into his heart. She depressed the plunger and glanced at the monitors. ‘Nothing! Fight dammit,’ she prayed as she reached for the paddles and hollered, “Clear!”  
  
She was about to apply them when she heard a blip and turned, there was a pulse. Faint, but he was back. She handed off the paddles to a nurse and leaned in close. She felt heat waves radiating off his skin as she whispered, “C’mon Jack. You’re still with us, now fight, Colonel!” She almost cheered when his lips moved in silent response. Could he have actually called her “Sir”?  
  
Her smile faded. His chart told her that Jack was truly slipping away. His vital signs were too weak. His temperature was too high. If possible, he seemed even more battered then when he’d first been rescued.  
  
‘This is not right,’ Janet thought as she bent over the Colonel and spoke to him harshly. “Jack,” she barked, slapping his cheek sharply, hoping he’d open his eyes. “Colonel, pay attention,” she barked again when he didn’t respond. “I need you to fight, Sir!” An instant later, the monitors began a high-pitched scream, telling Janet it was too late. He’d gone.  
  
  
ΩΩΩ  
  
Gorlagon heard the guards talking outside of his overcrowded cell. He caught the word, “O’Neill,” and motioned for the others to be quiet. As they hushed, he heard the last few words, “on life support.”  
  
The old man sat heavily. He pinched the bridge of his nose. Then, frustrated, he rubbed his hand back through his steel-gray hair and called out loudly for a guard. When two eyes peered through the small square window, he said, “Tell the General that Gorlagon needs to see him. Tell him it’s a matter of life or death.”  
  
The eyes blinked and a female voice said, “right,” before the face disappeared.  
  
Gorlagon heard her walk away. As minutes passed he wondered if she would pass on the message or just ignore him. “I should have told the guard it was about O’Neill,” he muttered. By then, it was too late.  
  
Hammond got the message, right after he’d finished reading the report from Doctor Fraiser on Colonel O’Neill. Her report chronicled the cold facts of it: how his condition had grown more and more desperate. The Doctor concluded that, almost certainly, the life-saving effects of a sarcophagus had healed him, but then somehow had been reversed.  
  
The Doctor delayed the inevitable all night. She hadn’t been able to prevent the re-occurrence of the fatal injuries O’Neill had suffered more than a week ago. He’d gone into cardio-vascular arrest at 14:30 hours.  
  
After three days of fighting to save Jack O’Neill, she had lost her battle.  
  
Hammond sighed, placed his head in his hands and allowed himself a moment to take it in. It had hardly seemed possible when he heard Jack on the radio three days ago, risen from the dead. Now, it hardly seemed possible that he was really gone.  
  
Hammond lifted his eyes, wiped them dry, annoyed, and continued reading. The next line made the old man sit up and stare. ‘At 14:37,’ Doctor Fraiser reported, ‘after unsuccessful attempts at resuscitation, I instituted extraordinary life-sustaining measures. I did this despite the Colonel’s living will clearly forbidding such measures. I took this action on my own authority as the Colonel’s personal physician, in order to gain time to negotiate for the use of the sarcophagus that the Yult possess. This device could save my patient. It is my belief that, if he were presented with the option, the Colonel would have made the same decision for himself.’  
  
Hammond read the last part again, carefully. He weighed the Doctor’s argument. If Colonel O’Neill could be sustained for a short while, perhaps the General could convince the aliens to share their sarcophagus to save him. If they could save Jack O’Neill, Hammond might gain invaluable information on the threat he was facing.  
  
Hammond knew it was his call. As Jack’s CO, he had the power of life and death over him, as well as everyone at the SGC. He was also Jack’s friend. He would do whatever it took to save him, anything short of disrespecting his stated wishes on this deeply personal decision. Then again, he was his commander and he needed O’Neill’s intelligence.  
  
Hammond rubbed his eyes and tried to make up his mind. A small voice of Hammond’s conscience argued that allowing this to continue for even another moment was selfish and disrespectful.  
  
The General did his very best to ignore it. He turned to the next piece of paper in his in-box and saw it was a note from one of the guards. Hammond wondered whom among the aliens he could talk to about helping him save Jack, as he scanned the note. ‘Maybe the Senator,’ he thought. Then he realized he was reading a request for an audience.  
  
Hammond pressed the intercom and said, “Bring Gorlagon to my office immediately.”  
  
A couple of minutes later a rap on the door told him the prisoner had arrived. “Come in,” Hammond replied and the Airman escorted Gorlagon into the office, trailed by a young marine who held a rifle on the old man.  
  
“Airman, thank you. Marine, please wait outside,” Hammond ordered as he gazed at the downcast man standing before him with his head lowered in defeat. “Please be seated,” Hammond said gently.  
  
The man sat, still without meeting Hammond’s eyes. “What is this about?” Hammond asked gently. Then gasped as the man raised his face. It was the face drawn by the military sketch artist at Mercy Hospital a lifetime ago, the face of the old man who had pretended to be Sergeant Major Jonathan O’Neill.  
  
“I recognize you,” Hammond said. “You took O’Neill from Mercy Hospital.”  
  
“I did,” Gorlagon replied. Hammond noticed his voice was very soft and dry, and the face was undeniably a much older version of the face of Jack O’Neill.  
  
“What can I do for you?” Hammond asked again.  
  
“O’Neill is dead?” Gorlagon asked in his strange voice.  
  
“The Doctor tells me he’s gone, Sir, but she … I put him on life-sustaining equipment. I don’t believe we will continue that unless we can get your people’s help.” Hammond replied. “I was about to ask Senator Kennedy to share your sarcophagus with us, just long enough to save Colonel O’Neill’s life.”  
  
When Gorlagon did not answer, Hammond pressed the point. “I have reason to believe you people owe it to Jack O’Neill.”  
  
Gorlagon shook his head, “No matter how much we wish to help, it is impossible. I am sorry General Hammond.”  
  
“Why?” Hammond barked.  
  
“No one knows the location of our sarcophagus, except M. Until she returns, we are all at risk of its loss.”  
  
Hammond felt a wave of bitterness as he said, “I see.” The strangely familiar eyes continued to gaze at Hammond until he asked. “Is there something else?”  
  
Gorlagon nodded and said, “I have a good understanding of the law, General. I am here to tell you, officially, that I forbid any act that discontinues Jack O’Neill’s life support.”  
  
Hammond frowned and said, “Oh? You forbid it? On what grounds, exactly?”  
  
Gorlagon answered with a small chuckle, so like Jack’s that Hammond knew the answer even before he spoke, “The ties of blood.”  
  
  
ΩΩΩ  
  
Daniel sat beside Jack’s bed on the 45th level, holding his hand. It was an intimacy he would never dare if O’Neill had been conscious. The makeshift Infirmary was empty, however. There was no one to see. Besides, Daniel hoped that human contact just somehow might reach Jack, even if he couldn’t hear him.  
  
Still, Daniel spoke softly. “This isn’t how it ends, Jack. You’ve got too many people counting on you. You can’t let us all down. You can’t just chuck it in like this. So, dammit, fight, Jack. It’s what you do!”  
  
The long, cool fingers in Daniel’s hand never moved. The eyelids didn’t flicker. The only sign of life was the rise and fall of Jack’s chest. Daniel knew that was artificial life, the result of the non-stop operation of the respirator that had pumped air and mimicked Jack’s heart function for hours.  
  
Daniel Jackson believed in miracles. He hadn’t before, but since he joined the SGC, he’d seen them. As he sat with Jack, Daniel prayed for just one more miracle to whatever gods exist. He prayed, until he heard General Hammond enter and walk slowly toward them. Daniel did not turn around. He knew the General was here to say those unbearably painful words, ‘I’m sorry, Son, but it’s time.’  
  
Daniel felt the General standing close behind him, but he couldn’t take his eyes off Jack’s face. He stared, desperate for a sign of improvement. “Not yet,” he finally said, and to his surprise the General answered, “No, not yet, Son. There’s someone here to see him, first.”  
  
Daniel realized then that the General was not alone. He turned and looked into the eyes of an old, old man; a man he recognized from Earnest Littlefield’s photograph of the 1940’s Star Gate team, the Army Air Corps Chaplin. Now that he saw the man in the flesh, Daniel realized this was a man with a striking resemblance to Jack O’Neill.  
  
“You should be dead,” Daniel said aloud, “unless you’re …”  
  
The man nodded and completed the thought, “Garðr le yult. That’s correct. I am called Gorlagon.”  
  
“The Wolf! The Wolf of Arthurian lore?” Daniel asked, surprised. The old man nodded and continued, “May I join you?”  
  
Daniel felt suddenly protective of Jack and said not too politely, “Why?”  
  
Gorlagon replied softly, “None of your business, Doctor Jackson.”  
  
At this, Hammond turned and walked away. Over his shoulder he said, “Stay as long as you need to, Gorlagon. When you’re ready, a guard will take you back to your cell.”  
  
Gorlagon pulled a plastic chair up alongside Daniel. Then he sat and gazed at Jack with an odd look of sorrow and affection. It made the hair prickle on Daniel’s neck. The expression seemed so familiar.  
  
Then, Daniel realized he’d seen it a thousand times, seen it flicker across Jack’s face. Jack always hid it behind his professional mask to avoid pointless guilt or pain for his people, to prevent them from seeing the pain they caused him when they were injured, missing or at unnecessary risk.  
  
“My god,” Daniel said softly, “you are …”  
  
Gorlagon fixed him with a hard look that made Jackson freeze. He said, “Leave it, Danny, please.” Jack’s eyes were there, that same hard glare, his same strong will.  
  
Daniel swallowed and said, “Right, it’s none of my business.”  
  
  
 ****

****


	3. Part 3 - Black Nights

  
Author's notes: Carter & Teal'c lost in the Bermuda Triangle. Who will save them?  


* * *

**Part III: Black Nights  
**   
  
_**Chapter 1.** _

Sam knew she was in water and spinning like a top. ‘Caught in the backwash,’ she managed to think, wishing her inner ear had an off switch. Then, she felt a strong hand on her upper arm and realized that Teal’c had her. ‘Thanks, Teal’c,’ she murmured into her mask. Not that the Jaffa could hear her.  
  
They were moving toward the surface rapidly. Sam could see the BQs receding into the light azure water far above and began kicking to help Teal’c move her to the surface. The ship was directly overhead when she saw the BQs disappear from the water. ‘Great they’re aboard. We’re next,’ she thought.  
  
Then, everything started to tilt. From Sam’s perspective, it was like they were caught in a strong current because the ship was moving away to her right. Since she knew the ship was stationary, waiting for them to surface, the apparent motion of the vessel had to be an illusion.  
  
Then, Sam realized it wasn’t an illusion. She saw water overhead churn white as its propellers engaged. The ship was moving. It was leaving them behind.  
  
Still, Teal’c continued toward the surface. Sam followed resolutely, her survival training taking over. ‘We have masks and snorkels,’ she thought. ‘If we drop our empty tanks and weight belts, we’ll have positive buoyancy, so we’ll float without much effort. I have the radio. If we get clear of the influence of the wreck, I can call SGC for help.’  
  
She scanned the ocean behind and above her. For the first time, realized that M and JFK were nowhere in sight. Had they taken the ship? Was this a plot? That made no sense, given General Hammond’s control over their ‘family’ the Yult wouldn’t double-cross them, would they? Maybe they hadn’t survived the gambit to leave the Yult ship.’  
  
She didn’t know, and resolved not to let it distract her. Past experience told her that the best way to survive is to face each obstacle as it came, not to look too far ahead, not to second-guess past decisions.  
  
‘I think too much,’ she’d told the Colonel, now she heard his voice in her head, telling her she’d be found, if she kept her head and had some luck. ‘Right, Colonel,’ she thought. ‘ I’ll deal with the mystery of the missing Yult when we reach dry land. Right now, I concentrate on staying alive.’  
  
  
ΩΩΩ  
  
General Hammond stalked the halls of the SGC late into the night. Major Carter had not checked in since she reported reaching the dive site. Hammond had tried to recall them, but there’d been no response to his hails.  
  
Hammond knew from the Major that they’d hired a dive boat to take them southwest out of Nassau, the extreme northern tip of the region known as the Bermuda Triangle. The Captain of the hired boat had been reluctant to approach the area and great alarmed when M asked for a change in course that would take them directly into the “Devil’s Triangle” as the locals called it. She had persuaded him with money, but eventually the man had refused to venture any farther into the Triangle.  
  
When it looked like he would turn back, with or without their permission, M had declared they were close enough to swim the rest of the way, if he would wait for them. The man had agreed after doubling the price. Sam had radioed the SGC, provided coordinates and said they would be swimming to the Southwest. That was the last contact with the Major, over 24 hours ago.  
  
Carter was a responsible professional, totally trustworthy. Hammond knew that if she was not checking in on schedule it was because she couldn’t check in on schedule. The question was: ‘Why?’  
  
‘Either she’s in trouble, or there is some sort of interference that makes communications impossible,’ Hammond thought as he returned the surprised salutes of the late night guard detail. ‘If she’s not in trouble, well then there’s nothing to do but wait, but if she is in trouble … there’s nothing to do but wait,’ George admitted. There was no way to rescue her and Teal’c. It was far too dangerous to send a rescue ship or seaplane into the very heart of the area known as the ‘Bermuda Triangle.’  
  
‘And, unless and until Carter, Teal’c and the two Yult returned, O’Neill’s in limbo,’ George concluded the depressing line of thought. The medical term, ‘vegetable’ had always given General George Hammond heartburn and he carefully avoided even thinking the word in connection with his 2IC. Still the suggestion of that nasty word crept into his mind. Rebelling, Hammond thought bitterly, ‘the hell, he is --not Jack O’Neill. I’ll pull the plug … personally … before I’ll allow it.’  
  
George had wandered most of the SGC, as he waited for word that Major Carter was on the line, that everything had gone fine. Word didn’t come. He wandered deeper into the complex.  
  
To his surprise, he found himself outside of Gorlagon’s cell. Hammond felt foolish, puzzling there. He stood before the guards for a moment without a clear purpose. They stood at rigid attention. So, he returned their salutes with a snap of his hand and said, “Open up.”  
  
Hammond stalked into the room alone. Most of the Yult were asleep, stretched out on the bunks or scattered across the floor on makeshift beds of blankets and pillows. They looked like displaced civilians taking refuge from a flood or hurricane.  
  
A soft, dry voice came from the shadows, “Evening, General.” George felt his heart skip. Something in the voice from the dark sounded eerily like Jack O’Neill.  
  
“Gorlagon,” Hammond said softly, “How about joining me for a cup of coffee and a chat?”  
  
Hammond and Gorlagon walked slowly toward the SGC canteen. As they walked, Hammond glanced at his companion. Gorlagon was tall. His hair was steel gray. His posture was erect and his joints loose. He seemed strong, fit.  
  
The man’s face, however, was old and deeply lined. It was a face ravaged by untold sorrows, uncounted years. There was a wisdom about it, something that O’Neill’s younger face still only hinted at in moments of great trial, when people and circumstances demanded wisdom beyond Jack’s years. But the eyes, they were the same.  
  
‘This is how Jack O’Neill will look in another fifty years, or so,’ Hammond thought, ‘if he lives that long.’  
  
After a moment, Hammond asked a question that had bothered him since first seeing Gorlagon. “You’re an old man, Gorlagon, but from what Doctor Fraiser tells me both President Kennedy and Ms. Monroe still appear very young She said they haven’t aged at all. Why is that?”  
  
“I chose to age. The larva I carry requires infrequent visits to the sarcophagus to maintain its immature form, but my human form requires frequent use of the sarcophagus. Otherwise,” Gorlagon said, “I age.”  
  
Hammond almost asked the next logical question. Why would anyone choose to age? Something stopped him. Gorlagon didn’t seem inclined to elaborate, so the General let it alone. Instead, he said. “Even so, you aren’t Jack’s father. Right? Sir, I took a few minutes to access Sergeant Major O’Neill’s files. I saw his photograph. He didn’t look remotely like you.”  
  
Gorlagon nodded and laughed. “No, Jack’s father, Jonathan, looked like Jack’s grandmother,” he said as he helped himself to coffee. Then the General led him to a corner table. They could speak there with little risk of being overheard.  
  
“I’m sorry this has been so difficult,” Hammond said without really understanding why he felt the need to apologize. “The more we talk, the more I feel this might have all been avoided … somehow. I wish I could have let you people go through, but security made that outcome unlikely. Surely, you must have known that, at least some of you must have realized.”  
  
Gorlagon nodded and sipped his coffee. “I did, but General they’ve waited for too long. After a point even failure is better than an everlasting future of waiting for tomorrow. They’ve been stranded through infinity on what, to them, is a desert island. They need to be free. Now. No matter the cost. It is just time to go, General.”  
  
Hammond nodded and said as evenly as he could manage, “And does that include the cost Jack O’Neill is paying?”  
  
Hammond watched the old face. Gorlagon fought to hide his emotions. Finally, he said simply, “Yes. It was O’Neill’s choice.”  
  
He wiped his hand across his eyes and continued, “Jack O’Neill is a man who will give his life for a just cause. You know that about him, General. You’re his commanding officer. You’ve ordered him to risk his life more than once.”  
  
Hammond answered, “True, but I never put him through anything like this. I hope I never will. If I do, God knows it will be unintentional. Can your people say the same?”  
  
Gorlagon thought a moment before replying. “There are those among us who convinced Jack that our cause is just. He agreed to this of his own freewill, General. I agreed to it, as well.”  
  
Then he paused, seeming lost in thought, before concluding. “In their defense, I believe that they had no idea how far a man like O’Neill might go. These people are not barbarians, General. To their credit, when my leaders understood the sacrifice O’Neill was offering them, they didn’t have the stomach for it. Then, fate offered another way. You invited Teddy here. My leaders moved immediately to protect Jack, to prevent his sacrifice. They tried to perpetrate a harmless fraud on you.” Gorlagon explained quietly, “a white lie.”  
  
“Not a very successful white lie,” Hammond grumped and Gorlagon nodded and smiled slightly, saying, “No, and it’s awkward that we were so obvious to Doctor Fraiser. We underestimated her – underestimated all of you.”  
  
The Yult paused, staring deep into his coffee cup. Hammond realized the old man was holding back something. Hammond was surprised when the Yult murmured something. It sounded like ‘I’d forgotten.’  
  
Hammond waited for the rest, but finally decided he’d misheard when Gorlagon concluded, “I’m proud of Jack.”  
  
Hammond nodded his head and impulsively gave his companion’s forearm a tight squeeze. “You should be proud. Colonel O’Neill’s a fine man. Any man would be proud to call him ‘Son’,” Hammond stated.  
  
“I know, George. I do know him, pretty well. It’s just been a while. Even so, I’d like your promise not to tell him, not to tell anyone about our relationship.”  
  
Hammond agreed willingly. “You have my word, Gorlagon. Jack won’t ever know what you told me. Besides, after so many generations, the two of you are really only very distantly related.” Hammond said.  
  
He was still unwilling to admit O’Neill could be the offspring of a snake-infested alien, even with evidence to the contrary, sitting before him, sipping coffee and staring back at him with that disturbingly familiar gaze.  
  
Gorlagon broke eye contact, frowned and replied, “That’s true. Many generations separate me from Jack O’Neill. Consider this, George. As many generations connect us. Does that make our link weaker or stronger, do you think?”  
  
  
ΩΩΩ  
  
Janet Fraiser walked to Colonel O’Neill’s bedside and tended to him. It was late at night and she’d relieved the night duty staff, preferring to look after the Colonel herself. She straightened his already perfect pillow and blanket. Then she changed the clear plastic bags hanging beside him, replenishing those providing nourishment, removing those that held his accumulated wastes.  
  
As she worked, she glanced at her patient. Jack lay still, looking chiseled in stone. The dark lashes she’d always envied traced dark crescents against his bloodless skin. The cold neon light stripped color from even the living, she knew. Still, Janet let herself brush her fingertips across Jack’s forehead. She lightly ruffled his hair, just to touch him to prove to herself that her friend was not as deathly cold as he appeared.  
  
“I hope I’m doing the right thing, Jack,” she whispered.  
  
Jack felt her touch. If he could have moved, he would have shrunk away. He knew he was trapped, defenseless, out of control of everything. His heart pumped, his lungs lifted. He could not stop them. It would never stop, he knew. It terrified him.  
  
Something screamed, ‘It’s happening again.’ He’d been through it all before, in Iraq, years ago. This was the same. They’d kept him alive when he prayed to die. They’d blocked that longed-for escape: forced him to breathe, forced him to live, and forced him to watch the others die.  
  
Jack O’Neill had sworn on his father’s grave that, if he got free, he would never, ever let it happen again - far better to eat a bullet. His brave promise was worthless. Somehow, he’d failed. It was happening again.  
  
‘Or maybe,’ a whisper came, ‘it’s happening still.’ Maybe he’d never escaped. His memories of escape and all that followed were just dreams.  
  
The instructor had warned him about delusions, in Spec Ops training. She’d made it clear that, if you want it badly enough, your mind plays tricks. You believe everything’s all right. Delusions come, when you know there’s no way out, no way to keep going without them. You lose it. You go nuts. The dreams come.  
  
Jack knew then he was still in that god-forsaken-hell-hole they called a hospital. Waiting. Half dead. Abandoned. Left to rot by that yellow-bellied-bastard Cromwell.  
  
Cromwell’s death had been a dream, only a sweet, sweet dream. Jack knew it had to be a dream because he remembered mourning the yellow-bastard and that was just not right.  
  
The Star Gate -- another impossible delusion -- none of it was real. He’d lost it.  
  
They had him … still … had him. Sara and Charlie were waiting, but he knew he was lost to them.  
  
  
 _ **Chapter 2. White Knights  
**_  
Sam leaned her head against Teal’c and stared up into the night sky. It was awash with stars. She squinted up thinking, ‘they look like shards of ice, or the slivers of crystals on my car windows this morning,’ recalling how they’d spilled across her black gloves as she’d scraped the rime of ice from her windshield. ‘Ice,’ she thought, yearning for something cold to drink.  
  
They had drifted steadily to the south all day, Sam knew, wondering again where the current would finally take them and how long they could survive floating in the vast expanse of saltwater. It was warm, even at night, survivable at night. But even the tail of the dwindling day had been very hot, the glare blinding.  
  
Sam knew the salt was stripping their bodies of vitally important water. Sam knew the next day their time on the surface would be much longer, the effects of the sun and the salt much more damaging.  
  
She guessed they had tomorrow, tomorrow night and then, if she was lucky, part of the next day. After that, she would die. Teal’c would last longer, but if he couldn’t kelnorim, not even his symbiot would save him.  
  
“Teal’c,” Sam said softly.  
  
“Yes, Major Carter,” he answered.  
  
“We won’t last long,” Sam whispered and felt his arms tighten protectively around her.  
  
“No,” he said. “Not more than another day, I believe.”  
  
“I agree. We have to get a signal to the SGC, somehow, or we’ve had it,” she said, feeling frustration rising.  
  
“You have tried the radio repeatedly. It has not worked.” Teal’c replied reasonably. “There is nothing else to do.”  
  
“Not as long as we are so close to the wreck. There’s too much interference,” Sam agreed feeling weariness creep through her.  
  
She’d have already drifted into unconsciousness long ago and drowned, if not for Teal’c. She knew he must be exhausted. They had floated on the surface for hours as the sun set and deep into the night. As she felt the ocean lift her again, felt her body bob like a cork. She tried to think of something … anything.  
  
A falling star arched overhead. She followed its trail until it suddenly blinked out. The rising crest of the next wave blotted out its path. A moment later she felt the same crest lift her high above the surrounding surface, just in time to see the fire trail plunge to the blacker black of the far off horizon.  
  
“That’s it,” she murmured.  
  
“That is what, Major?” Teal’c rumbled softly, his mouth in her hair.  
  
“We don’t need to talk to them, Teal’c. I’ve been so stupid. All we need to do it let them know we are in trouble. The General knows pretty much where we are, I just have to tell him to come get us.”  
  
“But the radio won’t transmit, Major.” Teal’c reminded her.  
  
“Not words, Teal’c, but it still transmits a signal – a change in the interference pattern when I key the mike. Maybe that’s enough.” Sam replied.  
  
Then she waited for another wave to lift them and at the crest, she started keying her radio mike rapidly – long, short, short, long, pause; long, short, short, long.  
  
“Major Carter, what is the message you are transmitting?” Teal’c asked.  
  
“I’m sending SOS,” she replied as she rapidly keyed the radio. “With any luck the SGC will pick it up – they’re monitoring this frequency, waiting for me to report in – and when they get this distress signal, they’ll send out a rescue party.”  
  
  
ΩΩΩ  
  
General Hammond waited at his desk the rest of the night for word from Major Carter and Teal’c. If they were lost, too, Hammond feared that he’d lost three of the four people on his best team, three friends, three brave souls he was supposed to protect.  
  
Hammond opened his eyes when he heard a knock on his door. He rubbed his knuckles into his sleepy eyes and wondered, ‘Who the hell could be at my door at … ’05 hundred hours?’  
  
“Come,” Hammond barked, wishing for a cup of coffee and a shower. Daniel Jackson stuck his head through the doorway.  
  
“General? Any word from Sam?” the young scientist asked, smiling uncertainly.  
  
Hammond hated to answer, but he shook his head and said, “No, Doctor Jackson. I’m sorry. There’s been no contact at all. We have been monitoring the frequency. There’s been nothing but an occasional burst of static.”  
  
Jackson looked crestfallen. Hammond guessed the young man was realizing the terrible consequences, if Carter and Teal’c were to fail. Even so, Hammond was surprised when Daniel exclaimed, “but they can’t not call! Jack needs them to get back here.”  
  
Hammond nodded his head and said, “I know.” He motioned to a chair and Jackson dropped into it.  
  
Hammond continued, “You know they are doing their best, Doctor. You know as well as I do that they are very capable professionals. If it is possible, they will call in soon. Then we’ll move forward and help Colonel O’Neill.”  
  
George was not surprised when Daniel wiped a hand across his bleary eyes. He was, however, very surprised when the Doctor announced that he wanted to listen to the tapes of the ‘static’ on Sam’s frequency.  
  
“There’s nothing to hear, Doctor.” Hammond assured him. “Our people were listening all night long, as it came in and was recorded. They’d have notified me immediately of a message. Son, you look like you need some rest. I’ll call you if there is any news.”  
  
Daniel stood and started out the door and then turned and said, “Please, General. Just let me listen to the tape. I’ll lay down and play it while I try to sleep.”  
  
Hammond smiled and nodded, “Okay. But do try to sleep Doctor. I need you rested and alert, in case things start jumping around here again.”  
  
Daniel walked down to the radio room. He explained to the technician on duty that he needed the tapes from the previous evening and something to play them on in his quarters. The technician made a call and then assured him that the equipment and tapes would be in his quarters before he arrived.  
  
Daniel was tired. As he walked, he wondered what had made him ask to listen to twelve hours of static. ‘Desperate measures,’ he realized.  
  
He’d spent most of the night beside Jack again. Waiting for some news that Sam would be returning soon with M, so they could locate and use the sarcophagus. He’d slept in a chair, again, holding his friend’s hand off and on whenever they were alone.  
  
He didn’t want the medical staff to witness such inappropriate male intimacy. Daniel wasn’t so concerned about what they thought of him. He knew Jack would hate it. Out of courtesy, and the unshakable belief that Jack would be up and around and prone to ribbing by the medical staff, Daniel took pains to be discrete.  
  
Daniel stopped at the Cafeteria. He grabbed a couple of pieces of pumpkin pie and a mug of coffee. Then he continued directly on to his quarters.  
  
Good to their word, the radio technicians had already setup a playback unit. The tapes were neatly stacked beside it on his desk. The latest tape was cued up. So, Daniel pressed play and adjusted the sound to a soft hiss.  
  
The tape played as Daniel ate his pie and coffee. The General had told him the truth. The sounds alternated between a soft hiss and what sounded like blank tape.  
  
Daniel stretched out on the bunk and closed his eyes, listening to the hiss of static from the machine. ‘I wonder why sometimes there’s static and other times there isn’t?’ he thought as he felt the warmth of the narrow bed wrap up and around him. ‘What makes it do that?’ But before he could decide on a reason, he was asleep.  
  
Daniel dreamed of the ocean, stretching away in all directions. There was a strange hissing from the waves as they reared up over his head. The wind pulled long streams of water from their crests. He felt the warm water enfold him and felt it rock him. Waves lifted him and then receded beneath him. The hissing seemed to come and go with the waves. There was a pattern.  
  
Daniel’s eyes flew open and he sat up. “There was a pattern!” he said.  
  
Then he turned to the playback unit and cranked up the sound level to maximum. The hissing became a scream at that level, but he needed to hear everything on the tape. He closed his eyes and listened.  
  
“There!” he cried just as a loud banging rang against his door.  
  
A man’s voice penetrated the door, “Doctor Jackson! Are you alright?”  
  
“Yeah, yeah!” Daniel called back as he hurriedly cranked the sound level back. “Fell asleep with the sound turned up. Sorry!”  
  
He thought he heard a muttered curse, but ignored it, betting the guard would go away if he made no further noise. He was right.  
  
Daniel rewound the tape and turned up the sound again, this time using headphones. As the tape played, he heard the pattern begin again. It was regular: a series of short breaks in the static, then a period of nothing, followed by another burst of static with the slightest sounds of clicking; then more silence.  
  
Daniel picked up the telephone and called the radio shack. “Yeah, do you guys know Morse Code?” he asked the first person who answered.  
  
“Sure,” the voice answered. “Why?”  
  
“Come down to my quarters and bring someone who knows Morse, please. I think there is a message in the static.” Daniel explained. Then he disconnected and dialed the General’s office for an appointment as soon as possible.  
  
Within fifteen minutes, Daniel was standing before the General arguing his case. “Sir, the others hear it too. There is an SOS message in the static, on the frequency assigned to Sam and Teal’c. It wasn’t in the earlier tapes, even though there was static. It only started last night and it has continued until early this morning. It’s gone now. So is the static. I think the radio batteries have died. Sir, we have to go after them.”  
  
“Not into the Bermuda Triangle, Son. Not without a guide.” Hammond said flatly, wishing like hell he didn’t have to argue this with Jackson.  
  
“Jack’s going to die, if we don’t, Sir. So will Teal’c and Sam from the sound of things, General. Please, I volunteer. I’ll go alone. Just let me try to help them.” Jackson pleaded.  
  
“I won’t send you to your death, Doctor. I’m truly sorry. You know I am, Son. But there is no chance you’d come back, not if Major Carter and Teal’c couldn’t make it with Yult as guides. That’s my final word. I’m sorry.”  
  
The General looked down at his paperwork and Daniel knew he had to leave, but he couldn’t just give up. “General,” Daniel blurted, “I’ll bring a guide. Someone who knows about the Triangle and who is willing to risk his life for Jack, too.”  
  
Hammond looked up at Jackson, surprise lighting his face. Before Daniel could speak, Hammond slapped his hand on the desk and barked, “Gorlagon!”  
  
  
ΩΩΩ  
  
Within moments, Hammond had ordered arrangements for a team from SGC to fly to Nassau. From there, they’d embark by the fastest available transport to the last coordinates provided by Major Carter.  
  
The General knew time was critical. His people had been out there on the open ocean for almost twenty-four hours now. They had to be near the end of their strength.  
  
He hoped Doctor Jackson hadn’t realized this, a hope confirmed when Jackson approached, whistling. “Gosh, I’m glad to be doing something. We’ll get them back, General.”  
  
Hammond shook his head at the man’s unsinkable faith. A glance from Gorlagon’s steel-gray eyes told Hammond that, no matter what the ever-hopeful Daniel might believe, at least the old Yult understood what was at stake. He understood it perfectly.  
  
Hammond felt a thrill of admiration then as he watched Gorlagon issue quiet orders to the others, and saw them obey without hesitation. ‘Leadership – it’s a family thing, I guess,’ Hammond decided, continuing to observe the old man organizing his troops, as eager to get out there as if Carter and Teal’c were two of his own. ‘No, the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree,’ Hammond mused. The next moment, his attention was diverted by the telephone. The air transport had arrived and three subs and a cruiser were racing toward Nassau, vying for the privilege of carrying SGC personnel once again into harms way.  
  
  
ΩΩΩ  
  
Hundreds of miles to the East, Teal’c rested his eyes from the ruby burn of a rising tropical sun. He’d allowed his head to droop, burying his sunburned face in Major Carter’s salt-stiff hair.  
  
He held her against his chest, as he’d done for the past several hours, ever since she’d slipped into semi-consciousness. He, too, was exhausted and now sought the relief of kelnorim, but his passage into deepest relaxation was disturbed by the smell of Major Carter’s hair.  
  
Even after all she’d been through, the Major still smelled like a woman, a beautiful woman, strong and alive. Teal’c inhaled the scent and then breathed out, letting the thought slip away, followed by the fleeting sense that his friend O’Neill was a foolish man, a very foolish man.  
  
Then the Jaffa passed into total relaxation, still cradling his friend. They rocked together in the rise and fall of endless, rolling waves, as the sun slipped up the empty blue bowl of the sky.  
  
A few nautical miles to the South-Southeast, M staggered onto a narrow spit of sand. She’d barely reached it before the current swept her past the speck of land. JFK lay ahead; prostrate on the wet sand, spent waves lapping at his side.  
  
“We made it,” she gasped, pushing her wet hair from her stinging eyes. “They’ll send help.”  
  
The young man slowly rolled over and said quietly, “They already have. There’s a ship.”  
  
M followed his gaze and realized there was, indeed, a craft on the water and now she recognized the high-pitched whine of a launch, as the high-speed rubber craft bounded toward them.  
  
“It’s too soon,” she gasped exchanging an alarmed glance with her son.  
  
JFK struggled up from the sand. He squinted into the rising sun, trying to make out any details of those coming for them from the East. “It has got to be NID,” he concluded, grabbing M’s forearm and dragging her back into the sea as fast as he could run.  
  
The men on the launch saw them reach the waves and angled their approach vector to intercept. ‘Foolish waste of energy to run,’ the Operational Leader thought as he signaled the change in course.  
  
The OL’s attitude gradually changed as his team circled the tiny island again and again, in ever expanding circuits, scanning the surface for any sign of the two fugitives. By the fourth trip, the sun was well above the horizon. There was still no sign of the pair. They’d vanished, probably drowned, but orders were to bring them back, alive or dead. Either would do, but they had to find them.  
  
The sun climbed. Its heat rose and tempers grew short.  
  
  
ΩΩΩ  
  
Daniel Jackson sat beside Gorlagon. He considered the old man as red rays of the rising sun washed across America’s midsection and colored the plane’s interior dull crimson. In the monochromatic light Daniel thought again, ‘the man could be Jack O’Neill,’ until Gorlagon turned his time-worn face to Jackson and demanded, “what?”  
  
Daniel held his tongue. He looked away sheepishly and continued to consider the evidence. The man hadn’t slept throughout the flight, or for god-knows-how-long before that. Daniel knew for a fact he’d prowled the halls with Hammond, waiting for Sam to check in with the SGC. Still, he looked as strong and fresh as men far younger, Daniel thought. Jack had that same strange talent of focusing on the objective, driving away weariness, hunger, pain through sheer force of will. Jack never quit, until the job was done.  
  
If the similarity held, Gorlagon would probably collapse as soon as they got home. Jack always did, flinging himself across his couch with some sports match on the tube only to pass out before the first inning, round, goal or touchdown, depending on the season.  
  
Daniel stole another covert glimpse at the backlit profile across from him. The jaw and chin were the same, the nose more pronounced, the ears identical and even the left eyebrow had that same odd scar bisecting it. Daniel blinked and looked again, then stood and peered directly into Gorlagon’s angry face. “Jack?” Daniel demanded and was rewarded with a flash of a smile and a gruff, “Danny, keep it down, will you?”  
  
Obediently, Daniel slipped back into his seat without another sound. His mind was working overtime. ‘Danny, Jesus! He called me that when we were with … Jack. If this is Jack O’Neill, who’s back at the SGC? If this is Jack O’Neill what the hell happened to him?’  
  
Daniel tried to turn and examine the old face. He froze when he heard the familiar growl, “Later, Daniel.” Then after a pause, continue, “I promise. I’ll explain … later. Just, don’t blow my cover, please.”  
  
Daniel closed his eyes and feigned sleep. He was glad he didn’t have to face this man yet, this man who’d watched him holding his friend’s hand, his hand. Good God!’ Daniel despaired, wondering how he could ever look his friend in the eye again.  
  
To Daniel’s vast relief, the military transport started its descent and things suddenly got very busy.  
  
‘Gorlagon’s going to be far too busy for a private chat… No Jack,’ Daniel reminded himself, ‘Not Gorlagon, his name is Jack O’Neill.’  
  
“Okay people, this is it,” O’Neill barked in a hoarse voice, standing and turning to face the rest of the team as the plane touched down. “Saddle up!”  
  
The SG-teams exited the plane rapidly and mounted three troop transports that pulled up close to the exit ramps. As they pulled away from the airstrip, Daniel heard the lieutenant in charge of the trucks shout in O’Neill’s ear, “We’ll take you dockside. There’s a sub meeting you there. Do you know where you’re going?”  
  
O’Neill turned to the young officer and said, “Classified, Son.”  
  
Daniel checked and double-checked his equipment. He’d never been inside a military submarine before. He was nervous. He had worked in enclosed space most of his career in archeology, but the thought of enclosed space under water gave him the willies. He didn’t want his nerves to show, so he concentrated on his gear as a distraction and a way to keep O’Neill from noting his discomfort. It didn’t work.  
  
The old man stepped up behind him, gave Daniel’s pack straps a sharp pull, rearranged something Daniel couldn’t identify and said, “You’re checked out Doctor Jackson, take a seat and try to relax. Recite the Emperors of Rome, backwards, why don’t you? Works for me every time.”  
  
Daniel turned and saw that O’Neill grin just before Jack growled, “Sit down Danny for Christ sakes, you’re scaring the Special Forces guys.”  
  
They submerged without incident, aside from a chorus of disconcerting pops and groans as the sub took on pressure from the ocean. Soon, however, the chorus faded away. Daniel found himself working backwards through the Emperors of Rome: ‘Romulus Augustulus, Julius Nepos, Glycerius, Olybrius, Romanus, Arvandus, Anthemius …’  
  
The men around him were reading, writing letters, chatting quietly. The space was close, the air tainted with the slight odor of diesel and the scent of closely packed humans. ‘Libius Severus, Majorian, Petronius Maximus, Valentinian III, Johannes, Constantius III…’  
  
Daniel must have drifted off to sleep. When he awoke, O’Neill stood at the head of the compartment. He was examining a folded map and quietly conferring with the sub’s Captain. Daniel saw him point to a spot on the map and the Captain nod, turn and depart.  
  
‘Probably headed for the bridge,’ Daniel decided between Emperors. Then he closed his eyes and continued his reverse chronology, ‘Priscus Attalus, Sebastianus, Jovinus, Constans II, Gratian, Marcus, Honories, Honorius,’ as the sub vibrated softly under his backside. He felt the vessel turn slightly in response to orders, the likely result of the conversation he’d just witnessed.  
  
Daniel had just reached ‘Nero, Claudius and the notorious Emperor Gaius Caligula,’ when O’Neill’s voice broke his concentration. He murmured, “Tiberius” as he opened his eyes.  
  
The muscular kid beside Daniel glanced over and said, “Naw,” then gestured at Jack with his chin, “his name’s Gorlagon.”  
  
‘That’s what you think,’ Daniel thought, but only nodded and smiled at the jarhead.  
  
“Okay,” O’Neill rasped loudly, “This is search and rescue. The sub will surface. There are small craft on the deck. You have your team assignments. I expect you to check in on the pre-assigned schedule. I have reason to believe we are in exactly the right area to locate Teal’c and Major Carter. They’re going to be in bad shape, people. So I want rapid pickup and immediate return to the sub. When word comes that we have them, everyone exercise radio discipline and return immediately to the sub, unless there’s an emergency. Questions?”  
  
There were none except, of course, for Daniel’s. He knew better than to ask how O’Neill had come by his information on where to find Teal’c and Sam. He knew better than ask Jack what had happened to him.  
  
Instead, he obediently stood on command, fell into line, followed the man ahead of him up a series of narrow ladders and passageways to the hatch topside. Then he scrambled out into the brilliant sunshine of tropical mid-day. He joined two young men he’d never met (although he’d seen them around the SGC cafeteria), and O’Neill beside a small collapsible craft. The wooden boat was equipped with a motor and a few basic pieces of rescue and medical equipment.  
  
The submariners lowered the small boats efficiently. Within minutes, O’Neill’s boat was on the surface, following a pre-determined path that formed one part of a grid that effectively covered every five meters of the surface. If, by bad luck or human error, they found nothing, the grid would expand, creating an ever-widening network, until the rescue succeeded.  
  
With more than one hundred men searching in more than twenty small boats, Daniel didn’t doubt they would find Teal’c and Sam. What worried him was whether they would find them alive.  
  
  
ΩΩΩ  
  
Tempers were short on the launch. The OL knew he was in trouble. His superiors had made it very clear that failure was not an option. He glanced over his shoulder toward the larger ship swaying at sea anchor behind him.  
  
The sea was empty in every direction, but the sky was not. Ominous storm clouds had gathered on the Southwest horizon. Fitful winds were whipping the waves into a cross-hatching of small whitecaps. ‘How long before they recall us?’ he wondered.  
  
“Widen the course,” he barked to the man at the helm who nodded in sullen obedience. No one would challenge him, but the OL had felt the men’s concentration slipping away over the past three hours. He had the growing sense that whatever happened, it depended on luck. Good or bad, it was out of human control.  
  
As the craft came about, the radio on the OL’s chest hissed. He keyed the chest-mike and said, “Z-1, over.”  
  
A voice hissed, “Broaden your search to the North-Norwest. There’s a vessel on the surface. Maybe they know something you don’t. Over and out.”  
  
‘Bastards,’ the OL thought as he hollered to the helmsman, “Nor-Norwest. I’ll tell you when to come about.”  
  
The man at the helm brightened a bit and said, “Roger that, Sir.” Then he swung the rubber boat in a broad arc to the North until the OL signaled to straighten her out.  
  
As they skimmed across the waves leaving the island rapidly behind, everyone aboard wondered what they would find ahead. A couple of men donned life vests, glancing sidelong at the gathering storm. The others fingered their automatic weapons.  
  
O’Neill had chosen the course that would put him on the extreme Southern edge of the likely rescue area. He lounged against the side of the boat, letting the lookout scan the surface for the time being.  
  
Daniel knew from his attitude that he didn’t expect to find anything, or anyone, not yet. ‘Maybe the whole rescue operation thing is just a cover,’ Daniel thought, then wondered, ‘Can this be the same Jack O’Neill I know?’  
  
He’d never realized Jack could be devious. It was a trait Daniel knew Jack despised in others, what he hated most in the Tok’Ra. He thought unhappily, “Guess some things change a man.’  
  
After a few minutes, Daniel saw O’Neill tense and then signal the helmsman to slow down and come about to the East. “Keep an eye peeled,” he said quietly to the lookout, as he stood and gazed across the waves.  
  
Daniel watched him for a moment and then stood and began searching in the opposite direction. After about thirty seconds, Daniel felt the hair on his neck prickle. A moment later, he realized he was seeing something on the horizon.  
  
“Jack,” he said before he could stop himself.  
  
He turned and O’Neill glared at him. No one else had noticed.  
  
“I see it,” Jack answered. “ Looks like a hurricane building.”  
  
“No,” Daniel continued, pointing. “Someone’s coming. There’s a boat.”  
  
“Damn,” O’Neill swore softly. Then he snapped, “Heads up, we have visitors.” Before Jack finished, the lookout cried, “I see them!” and gestured in the direction of the rapidly approaching launch.  
  
O’Neill lunged forward, and responded. “Right, helmsman come about 180 degrees and punch it!”  
  
The boat leapt like a frightened hare. Daniel grabbed the seat to avoid going overboard. He couldn’t make out anything for a moment. Then the waves parted and he saw a flash of blonde in the water ahead.  
  
“Sam,” he said.  
  
He glanced up and realized the other boat was closing faster and might reach them first. He gripped the side of the boat and willed it forward.  
  
“Get ready,” O’Neill said softly, placing a hand on his back.  
  
Daniel loosed a boathook and noticed O’Neill had drawn his weapon. The jarheads noticed, too. They flicked off their safeties. The helmsman gunned the boat the last fifty meters and then executed a perfect 180, placing the boatload of SGC warriors between the threat and their objective.  
  
Daniel leaned forward, almost pitched into the water by the centrifugal force of the turn. He felt a hand on his belt and leaned out as far as he could reach. He swung the hook. It caught a shoulder strap on Teal’c’s wetsuit. Daniel heaved as he felt strong hands drag him back into the boat. Teal’c started to bob toward the spinning boat. Daniel gave another strong pull, then other hands were on the boathook beside his, dragging Teal’c and Sam to the boat’s side.  
  
Shots rang out. He felt the spit of bullets over his head. Daniel ignored them, focusing on pulling his friends to safety. He felt a burn across his shoulder and knew he’d been hit. He didn’t hesitate.  
  
Teal’c and Sam were in reach now. He entwined his fingers in Sam’s gear, then under her arms as he fell back into the bottom of the boat, bringing her over the side on top of him. He scrambled to his feet, drenched with seawater and helped O’Neill drag Teal’c into the craft.  
  
Then Daniel collapsed. Fire licked his side and shoulder. Pain made him touch there and his hand came away bloody. Daniel felt tired and relieved and didn’t really care that there was fighting all around him. He slumped beside Sam and Teal’c. “Let the warriors handle the rest,’ he thought distantly. ‘I’m tired.’  
  
He watched, without interest, as O’Neill turned and fired into the boatload of armed men. It was alongside. Several men reached across the water, grappling with each other. Others leapt aboard. One of the kids from the SGC fell across Daniel’s legs and didn’t move. The other fired non-stop into their foe, screaming like a Banshee.  
  
O’Neill’s P-90 was jammed or empty. He grabbed it muzzle-end and swung it like a battle-ax. The butt connected with the head of the closest attacker. The man fell. His head was gone. Another man appeared behind him and opened fire.  
  
Daniel was never sure how, but O’Neill survived the hail of bullets. He dodged forward and flipped a grenade into the launch.  
  
Then he grabbed the helm and gunned their small boat away. An instant later, a massive explosion rocked them. It sent water over their sides, further drenching Daniel in the boat bottom.  
  
They’d survived. As his eyelids fluttered shut, Daniel heard O’Neill on the radio.  
  
“SG teams, this is … Gorlagon. Rescue accomplished. Return to the sub. Watch for hostiles. Repeat, watch for hostile forces. Over and out.”  
  
Then a weird howling began.  
  
‘Oh yeah, Daniel decided as darkness closed over them, ‘the hurricane.’  
  
 _ **Chapter 3. Through a Glass Darkly  
**_  
Daniel’s eyes opened. There was screaming in his ears, in his shoulder. He clamped his jaws and moved, willing himself not to howl. Then he realized it wasn’t his voice. It was the wild shriek of high winds. The hurricane had them.  
  
He’d crumpled in the bottom of the boat. Now he realized he’d been shifted aside. O’Neill had untangled him from Teal’c and Sam. Daniel opened his eyes. A wild-eyed young marine was at the tiller. O’Neill was huddled in the boat bottom with Sam in his arms. Teal’c lay beside them; eye’s closed, apparently dead or deeply asleep.  
  
“You okay?” O’Neill shouted over the storm-howls. Daniel just nodded. Then he let himself slip back, eyes closed.  
  
Daniel opened his eyes off and on through the nightmare of pain and storm. Each time, O’Neill still sat across from him, cradling Sam, enduring the wind and unrelenting downpour from sky and wild surf to shield her. Somewhere behind him, Daniel knew the remaining marine was bailing for all he was worth.  
  
Then, something changed. Daniel opened his burning eyes and saw a full moon smiling down like a white china plate on black satin. There was no wind, no waves. All was still. Daniel listened to the quiet, his eyes fixed on the perfect moon.  
  
Then a soft, dry voice drifted across the dark. It was Jack’s voice, but it wasn’t. He spoke softly, too tenderly.  
  
“I’ve got you,” the voice murmured. “I’m here. It’s okay. Samantha.”  
  
Daniel smirked through his delirium. ‘No, that’s wrong. You call her ‘Carter’ or ‘Sam.’ Nobody calls her Samantha, not even Jacob. Must be that alternate Universe, thing. Damn, guess I’ve gone through the mirror.’  
  
Daniel heard Sam mutter, “Colonel O’Neill? You okay, Sir?” The voice in the dark changed. It grew hard somehow. For no reason he understood, the change made Daniel want to weep.  
  
“Don’t open your eyes. Save your strength, Sam…” O’Neill answered gruffly. “I’m fine.”  
  
“How?” she asked. “Doctor Fraiser said you were in bad shape last time I saw you.”  
  
“Shhh,” O’Neill hushed her, concluding with “that’s an order, Major.”  
  
Daniel looked down from the moon, to his friends. The moonlight washed over them. Every detail was clear. O’Neill had Sam gathered in his arms. He was rocking her gently, his face buried in her hair.  
  
When Daniel opened his eyes again, he saw only the underside of a bunk. Had it been a dream? The stale stench of men and diesel told him he was back in the sub. Tight bindings around his shoulder and chest told him he’d been shot and treated. He decided not to move, based on past experiences with gunshot wounds.  
  
Eventually, an officer leaned over him and said, “How are you feeling, Doctor?”  
  
“Thirsty,” Daniel croaked. “What happened?” Then he stopped talking and took a long pull of water through the straw the medical officer offered.  
  
“You brought two of them back alive. We are still looking for the other two. No luck so far,” the officer said. “Do you want something for the pain?”  
  
“Please,” Daniel asked. “Where’s … ah … Gorlagon?”  
  
“Directing the search. He’s got us on full alert, seems to think there could be a ship of hostiles out there,” the officer answered.  
  
Daniel nodded and closed his eyes as the morphine kicked in, washing through him with that delicious sense that everything would be fine. Jack would see to it.  
  
  
ΩΩΩ  
  
JFK slapped M’s check lightly, then lifted her against his chest and rubbed her back, trying to warm her. The interior of the ship gave of a slight lemon glow, enough for him to see his mother’s eyes flicker as she came back.  
  
“Inside?” she asked, then pulled away and her back heaved as she emptied seawater from her lungs and stomach. He rubbed her back, trying to comfort her as she choked and gagged.  
  
“Yes, Modir. We are safe,” he answered. Then he waited until she spoke.  
  
“We must finish this,” she finally said. “I fear that Hammond won’t wait.”  
  
JFK nodded, noting her pale skin and the slight glow in her eyes, a hint of her great hunger for final success. “You fear for our family.”  
  
“And for O’Neill,” she admitted. “I’ve had enough of dead heroes. I told him I would handle this. We must finish it.”  
  
  
ΩΩΩ  
  
For Jack O’Neill the next hour was a significant comedown, following so close on the excitement of the rescue, hand-to-hand battle on the open sea and their near death experience riding out a tropical storm in an open boat on high seas.  
  
After the storm passed, the sub had picked them up on sonar and then came directly to their rescue, surfacing nearby. The Captain had sent a rescue team to collect them. Lucky thing, since they were all nearly dead with exhaustion. O’Neill had asked the Captain to recommend the sole uninjured marine for a commendation for keeping them afloat and alive during the hellacious storm.  
  
Back on board, Jack had begged a change of clothes and a shower. Now, he stood quietly while the boat crew did its job. They were after the vessel that had been the launch's base, having broken contact rather than leave O’Neill and his people behind.  
  
On the bridge, O’Neill leaned against a bulkhead and sipped hot coffee. He had no doubt the crew would do its job efficiently. The NID vessel would be intercepted. From what he’d been told it would be theirs well before it could escape into the waters claimed by Cuba.  
  
He was bone tired, but willed himself to remain alert. According to Teal’c, someone had grabbed the BQs and left Sam and him to drown. M and JFK had vanished.  
  
It didn’t matter. O’Neill knew the location of the two missing Yult, as well as the BQs. He knew the NID had them and he knew he must get them back.  
  
The alien technology would be essential to coming battles and it was far, far too powerful to leave in the hands of anyone other than General George Hammond. Besides, his future was inextricably intertwined with discoveries Sam would make using the BQs. It was a future he would protect, at any cost.  
  
As committed as O’Neill was to locating the BQs and the Yult, he hated waiting. He was anxious to get Sam back to the SGC. She’d been through hell and really needed more sophisticated medical care than a submarine’s medics could provide. She’d have to wait a little longer. Their future was still undecided, he knew, and his success in the next hours would tilt the balance one way or the other.  
  
So, he ‘suggested’ that the sub Captain sweep the area for surface vessels. When no ship was immediately detected, he asked about nearby islands. The tip of a coral-encrusted seamount poked just above the ocean surface a few miles to the South-southwest. They moved in that direction, all systems on full alert.  
  
“We’ve got something,” the radar operator announced tersely. “Confirmed,” the sonar operator echoed an instant later. “Small vessel, moving at a high rate of speed five miles East. They’re making a run for Cuba, Sir,” the young seaman stated, glancing from his Captain to O’Neill, not entirely sure who was in charge.  
  
The Captain glanced at O’Neill, who nodded almost imperceptively. “Move to intercept course, Chief,” the Captain ordered in a level voice, “best possible speed.”  
  
The Chief of the Boat snapped to the navigator, “Interception course?”  
  
The navigator had already calculated the course, having started the instant the radar man spoke, “Course to intercept, 0.372.”  
  
“Come about to course 0.372,” the Chief of the Boat ordered, “all ahead maximum speed.”  
  
“Course 0.372, aye,” the boat driver confirmed, spinning the wheel before him, “course 0.372 aye, sir.” Then the youngster worked a handle, a bell rang confirming the speed change, and the young man reported, “all ahead maximum, sir.”  
  
O’Neill stared into the coffee cup, seeing success ahead, success and the end of his long wait for this future. He knew those cherished years, the best years of his life, were about to begin … for the other O’Neill, the man he’d been so long ago.  
  
Inextricably interwoven with all their success, however, was the first link in a chain of events that would finally let the SGC defeat the Goa’uld. The same chain would lead, in the coming years, to his sudden disappearance and the loss of everything he loved.  
  
O’Neill knew the identity of the man behind the disappearance of the Yult, the near-murder of Teal’c and Sam, and the theft of the BQ devices. In the next hour, he could destroy the man and his organization.  
  
It was tempting to kill the man here and now, to sidestep the future and claim a long life with Sam at his side. But he wouldn’t. He couldn’t. The same man who would cause him such pain would also lead Sam to discoveries that, ultimately, would let SGC win their battle against the Goa’uld.  
  
Rather than endanger that future, the old Yult would protect his enemy. He’d do whatever was necessary to ensure the bastard’s future success.  
  
Still, the thought of feeling the man’s throat in his fingers was tempting. O’Neill could feel his thumbs crushing the life out. In a few minutes he’d have him at his mercy, but no.  
  
The old man closed his eyes, hoping no one had seen them glow.  
  
  
ΩΩΩ  
  
“Contact, moving on course 0.324,” the sonar man reported, just as he had every few minutes for the past two hours. “Closing the distance, Captain.”  
  
The Captain nodded and smiled grimly. It was a mathematical certainty. The ship couldn’t outrun them. It had no other place to run, no refuge except Cuba. It seemed to be unarmed, aside from its combat troops. The Old Man had neutralized them all, as the Captain had come to think of the silent octogenarian sent to ramrod this mission. There was nothing to do, but wait and let the crew perform. So, the Captain smiled grimly, nodded and sipped coffee.  
  
Another hour passed as the sub closed the gap. “Within range, target still on course 0.324,” the sonar man stated.  
  
“0.324, aye,” the Captain confirmed. “Periscope depth, Chief.”  
  
The Chief and crew had been through the drill and performed the real thing like clockwork, rising to periscope depth, raising the periscope, the Captain taking a look, setting up the shot and ordering the crew to place the sub and torpedo on proper vectors to stop their target.  
  
A single torpedo did the job nicely, disabling but not sinking the vessel. Then, an eager boarding gang took the crippled vessel with hardly any resistance. Word came that the boat was under their control.  
  
“You want to ride along, Sir?” the Captain offered, choosing a noncommittal title for the Old Man.  
  
O’Neill smiled and nodded, grabbed an offered peacoat, and accompanied the sub’s Exec up the ladder. A small crew had assembled and they cracked the hatch after the sub surfaced, unlashed one of the small boats and boarded the ship.  
  
There were a couple of long smears of blood on the deck, O’Neill noted as he clambered over the side from the boarding ladder. He felt a clamminess crawl up his spine that had nothing to do with the sight of other men’s blood. The technology was here.  
  
The beginning of the end, it started now.  
  
O’Neill honored chain of command and let the Exec direct the search, but he managed to be with the team that eventually found the BQs in the hold.  
  
“Got something, Sir!” a young voice exclaimed. O’Neill rounded the corner at a trot and stopped, staring. Four cylinders stood in the dark hold, glowing in a metallic blue green light that made him want to turn tail.  
  
‘They’re powerful, damned powerful,’ O’Neill thought squinting into the glow. There didn’t seem to be any moving parts. He felt his hair prickling from the electricity and fear. He wished he could blow them straight to hell and take his chances with the future, but no, that wasn’t just his choice.  
  
“Good work. Now get some rope and canvas and wrap ‘em up,” he ordered. The alien technology was immediately shrouded in canvas; the canvas was lashed tightly around the four machines and the heavy cylinders were manhandled to the boat for transport, one at a time, to the sub. There, they would rest in the small hold jammed between boxes of small engine parts and a dozen crates of canned milk.  
  
O’Neill stood topside. He watched the operation until the Exec informed him that the machines were all safely stowed, and all personnel and prisoners had been removed to the sub.  
  
“Right. Thanks,” O’Neill said, then paused and looked the Exec in the eye. “Mind if I ask a favor, in the manner of a personal request?”  
  
“No, Sir,” the officer replied.  
  
“I’d like to personally set the charges and sink her,” O’Neill stated. Then he raised an eyebrow, “whaddayasay?”  
  
The officer took in the old man standing before him: Obviously military. Obviously had pull, lots of pull. Obviously knew his shit. “You’re qualified, Sir?” the young man verified.  
  
“Fully,” O’Neill smiled anticipating the answer.  
  
“Be my guest,” the officer replied, then turned on his heel and headed down the side to the waiting boat. “We’ll be waiting for you and … don’t blow her until we’re well away from here, okay?”  
  
“Right,” O’Neill called over his shoulder.  
  
He took his time about it. He checked out the Captain’s cabin. He checked all the cabins and the bridge and each of the other holds, until he was satisfied he hadn’t overlooked anything important and that everyone had, indeed, left the vessel.  
  
Then, Jack set the charges, inserted detonators, strung the wires and tied them all into the triggering device. He took one last look around and rejoined the boat crew for the return trip to the waiting submarine.  
  
On the sub’s deck, he hung back allowing others to climb down ahead of him. Then, just before he pulled down the hatch, O’Neill looked across the water at the NID ship.  
  
Everything had happened just as he’d known it must. The future was coming just as he remembered it. He had done nothing to change its course. He flipped the trigger, and then slammed the hatch shut and dogged it as the sub submerged.  
  
Everyone aboard heard the explosion, followed by a brief, heart-wrenching scream of metal on metal. The screams died away. There was silence then, punctuated by irregular eruptions, as the boat sunk below crush depth.  
  
O’Neill sighed and turned to the Captain. “I suggest we check out that seamount you mentioned,” he said in a low voice.  
  
The Captain wanted to question O’Neill, but was under orders. Besides the Old Man seemed to know what he was doing. It was good to have decent intelligence information for a change. So the sub-driver nodded and said simply, “Roger that.” Then he issued orders to his bridge crew to make for a seamount to the North.  
  
Men relaxed who were off duty. A few got something to eat. Most just hit their racks, drained by the stress of battle.  
  
O’Neill stopped by the Infirmary. He spoke to the young SGC marine who’d been wounded and the other young man who had stayed at the helm all night, keeping them afloat somehow.  
  
Then he found Teal’c. The Jaffa was awake. He looked puzzled when he saw the old man.  
  
“Do I know you?” he said.  
  
O’Neill lied, something he’d become very good at over the centuries.  
  
“No. I was among the crew that found you. I wondered if there’s anything you need.”  
  
“I am in your debt, old man,” Teal’c rumbled softly. “I need nothing, but rest.”  
  
O’Neill nodded and moved on to Daniel’s bunk. Danny was still drugged out on pain medications, so he spoke to the medic on duty and learned his friend would have a marvelous scar to show only his closest friends and another for public consumption. Otherwise, he’d recover fully.  
  
Satisfied, O’Neill walked down the narrow hallway to the Captain’s quarters, where the medics had sequestered Sam, the only female aboard. His heart was beating hard as he slipped into the cabin.  
  
She was sleeping. White sheets and a brown army blanket were tucked tight around her.  
  
O’Neill stood a long moment just looking down at her. Her damp hair formed tousled curls of gold against the white pillowcase. Her face was red and shiny from the thick salve they’d smeared over her sunburn. Her dark lashes made two perfect curves across her cheeks. Her lips were slightly swollen, giving her a pout like a young child’s mouth.  
  
Her scent filled the room. He fought the urge to touch her, hold her, wake her and make love to her. Instead, Jack settled onto a small metal office chair and kept vigil, content to watch her sleep.  
  
Too soon, O’Neill heard the call to battle stations. Sam stirred at the sound. He wanted to wait, to see those huge blue eyes open, to see her speak again, push her hand back through her hair again, to know that she was alright, to know if she’d recognize him after all this time. But, what if she didn’t? What if she did?  
  
He slipped quietly out of the Captain’s cabin and headed for the bridge.  
  
  
ΩΩΩ  
  
Within the seamount, M heard the engines. A ship was approaching. She was tired and cold. The last thing she wanted to do was return to the ocean. It would be nearly dark out, probably raining. There was a good chance they would not be found in the rough seas. She had no choice, if her family was ever to leave this planet. She had no choice at all.  
  
She touched her son’s hand and felt him stir. “It’s time,” she said.  
  
JFK stood, pulled her to her feet and then embraced her. “Mother, it will work. Believe me.” Then, holding her by the wrist, he opened the hatch and slipped through the force field, pulling her behind him into the icy waters.  
  
She kicked hard, striving to reach the surface as quickly as she could. Helped by buoyancy and without the need to search, their trip back up was far swifter than the dive had been.  
  
M broke the surface, gasped and pushed her streaming hair from her eyes. JFK still held her wrist. He pulled her close to him. The waves were huge and rough. Rain was falling, undistinguishable from the flying spray.  
  
“Where are they?” she called out above the wind.  
  
“I can’t see them!” he answered. “Gorlagon will find us, don’t worry.”  
  
She held tight to her son as the waves and wind tore at them.  
  
She thought bitterly, ‘Gorlagon, may yet save us, but he could have prevented all this hundreds of times.’  
  
She admired the man, but resented him. Unlike her family members, the outlander had rejected her love and leadership. He’d defeated the influence she had over other men. Worse, he’d refused to share his knowledge of the ‘Gate or the future.  
  
She had not seen how special the outlander novitiate was, until the night of his ordination. That night, probably because of exhaustion and a broken heart, the man had let slip information that told her far more than he ever intended. M understood instantly that the ‘Sam’ he called for so desperately was no male, no friend, but a lost mate.  
  
M had examined the man’s soul. He had resisted. She learned only more mysteries without answers; Too many mysteries to ignore.  
  
She’d made him a friend. She’d tried to make him her lover, but he firmly rejected her love and held to his story of being an escaped slave of Irish origins.  
Stung by his disinterest and angered by his stubborn lies, she’d threatened to have him burnt as a witch. He admitted he would welcome death. In his bravado, he provided her with one tool to use against him.  
  
Instead of death, she’d punished him with eternal life, ordering him bound to a table and overseeing the implantation personally. The man had been badly injured in the process. She was not used to working with adult humans. His vocal chords had been damaged. For years she thought he’d lost the power of speech.  
  
It was her son who won Gorlagon’s love and trust. Asatur, as JFK had been known at the time, had taken the silent monk as his own man. He’d housed and clothed him, kept him safe from her and, in time, won his trust. He’d named him Gorlagon, for the legend of the man transformed into a wolf, for love of a woman.  
  
Years advanced. The time came for Gorlagon to use the sarcophagus. M pressed him to comply with their laws. To do otherwise would result in madness and death, or even transformation into a Goa’uld, a loathsome, dangerous beast. Gorlagon had faced her pleas with stony silence.  
  
In the end, Gorlagon complied. M always wondered what Asatur said to change his mind. The moment M met Sam Carter, she stopped wondering. Gorlagon had done it for her, to keep her safe, to protect their future together no matter how brief it had been, to see her once again before he died. M had damned him for his undying love of a woman named Sam.  
  
  
ΩΩΩ  
  
O’Neill climbed the last ladder, right behind the Captain, and up through the hatch to the conning tower. “It’s really blowing,” the Captain hollered into his ear.  
  
“They’ll be here!” O’Neill answered. “Have a diver ready. Tell your lookouts to sweep the area between here and that island.”  
  
The Captain shouted the orders. Within fifteen minutes, one of the sharp-eyed youngsters cried, “There!”  
  
O’Neill sighed internally. The last piece had fallen in place. He could take Samantha home now. He didn’t watch the rescue. He slipped back down the ladder, stripped off his sodden peacoat and went directly to the Captain’s cabin.  
  
Then the sub, its valuable cargo and exhausted passengers, turned silently for home.  
  
  
ΩΩΩ  
  
General Hammond summoned Gorlagon to his office and was waiting impatiently when the rap finally came on his door. “Come,” the General called out and the old Yult stepped through the door.  
  
Wearing field gear, the old man had looked more like Jack O’Neill than ever. Even dressed as he was now, in rugged civilian gear and an incongruous cloak that O’Neill wouldn’t put on in a million years, the resemblance was uncanny.  
  
Hammond stood and shook Gorlagon’s hand warmly, saying, “Thank you for bringing my people home.”  
  
Gorlagon said nothing. Hammond continued, “I suppose you’ll be leaving with the rest of your family?”  
  
The ancient Yult nodded, “Yes, General, as soon as you give us permission to depart.”  
  
Hammond looked into the old man’s eyes. They were red, very red. Gorlagon was exhausted, naturally, running a mission at his age. Everything about him said it: His bent back, slumped shoulders and his eyes. The old man had the look of desperate exhaustion. It was a look Hammond recognized. He knew it well from combat burnouts. Still, Gorlagon’s eyes seemed very red, even accounting for lack of sleep, stress and overexertion.  
  
‘Could the man have been crying?’ Hammond wondered. He had Gorlagon pegged as a warrior, every inch a man’s man, but maybe.  
  
‘After all, he thought he’d lost two of his own people,’ Hammond thought.  
  
Then, as he watched, the Yult rubbed a hand wearily across his eyes. When the Yult’s hand dropped, Hammond saw that something was very wrong. One of Gorlagon’s eyes was no longer gray. It was brown, dark brown. It was Jack O’Neill’s eye-color.  
  
Hammond felt the hair prickle on the back of his neck. He peered into Gorlagon’s mismatched eyes for another moment. Then, he spoke.  
  
“You told me once that you and Jack O’Neill are related,” Hammond said. “That was an understatement.”  
  
The old man squinted at Hammond, blinked hard and said, “What? I don’t understand, General Hammond.”  
  
“You lost your contact lens in your right eye … Jack,” Hammond replied dryly. “Why the masquerade, Colonel?”  
  
Hammond watched emotions race across the Yult’s face --- despair, shame, joy and, then, resignation. “It almost worked, General. By the way, the rank is Brigadier General, not Colonel. The Colonel is … the other guy,” O’Neill replied.  
  
“Take a seat, Jack and tell me what this is all about,” Hammond ordered. “It’s pretty clear you’ve been through something extraordinary. If what I think has happened, you know our future, as well as our past. That means you know troop movements, offensives, tactics, vital information about things that haven’t happened yet. You know things that I need to know. You have intelligence I can use to finally defeat the Goa’uld. So, understand this, friends or not, you aren’t going anywhere.”  
  
Jack sat. That predatory look was back, Hammond noted. After a long moment of silence, he spoke. “I can’t tell you anything, George. Things work out. It’s all I can say. You know that, if anyone does, you know.”  
  
Hammond felt a twinge of guilt, recalling how jealously he’d guarded his own future until SG-1 had returned from 1969. Still, Hammond gave his head a firm shake, “Not good enough. How did you do it?”  
  
“It was a mistake, a few years from now on a mission,” Jack stated flatly. “I won’t tell you anything more than that, George.”  
  
Hammond fixed the man before him with a cold look, as the full impact struck home. “You had the opportunity to stop all this, to prevent all this, you son-of-a-bitch,” Hammond growled. “You could have been there at Giza. You were there during the Army Air Corps tests. Hell, I have your damned photograph to prove it. Why didn’t you stop us? Your failure to act put this entire planet at risk. We never had to meet the Goa’uld, never had to step through that damned Star Gate. You could have stopped us. You had all the time in the world. Why?”  
  
Jack glared across the desk for a moment and, to Hammond’s surprise said, “How are Tessa and Kalin?”  
  
“Fine,” Hammond barked. “What do my granddaughters have to do with this?”  
  
“If you could have changed history, George, but Tessa and Kalin would have never existed, would you do it?” Jack asked softly, as if he really needed to be told.  
  
“Of course not!” Hammond almost shouted, “but Charlie died when he was a nine-year-old child. You can’t have any grandchildren, Jack. You don’t have any children.”  
  
“How the hell do you know!” O’Neill roared at the shocked General. Then he slammed his palms on the desk and shouted, leaning into Hammond’s face.  
  
“You’re right, George. Charlie died … and yes, I had a second chance. And d’ya know what, General? As much as I wanted to … stop Charlie, to warn someone…I couldn’t!  
  
The man was heaving, mouth open as he stopped shouting suddenly.  
  
Then Jack turned away and spoke softly. “Not without risking the future. Our future. The future where it all works out.”  
  
Jack looked through the windows at the Star Gate below. He continued in almost a whisper. “Hey, it’s not my theory. I’m not that bright. It’s what Carter came up with in 1969. It’s all I had to go on. I thought about it for a very long time, George. In the end, I didn’t do anything. So, there it is,” he sighed gesturing toward the ‘Gate.  
  
His shoulders slumped as he finished and he leaned heavily against the glass, “I pray to God I made the right choice.”  
  
Hammond’s phone rang. The General started and snatched it off its cradle. “What!” he barked and then listened intently for a moment. “Right. Place it in the Gate room, please. Ask Doctor Fraiser to bring Colonel O’Neill up from level 45.”  
  
Then Hammond turned back to fix Jack with a glare. The man didn’t back down and inch.  
  
“I know you don’t trust this, General. I promise you, things work out. I know. I lived it. I won’t do or say anything to risk our future now. I’ve held out for more centuries than you’ve lived years, General. So, go ahead. Do your duty. Let me go. Lock me up. Have me shot. I just don’t care anymore. I’ve finished what I came here to finish.”  
  
Hammond nodded. “Right,” he said still thinking things over. Then he gently placed his hand on the old man’s back and gave him a sad grin. “They tell me the sarcophagus has arrived. So, General O’Neill, what do you say? Let’s see to that … other guy. Then I can send you on your way.  
  
Doctor Fraiser had already set up in the Gate room when Hammond arrived. She directed her staff to remove the Colonel from life-support. For a moment the monitors emitted a high-pitch scream, a reminder to the few people there that the man was clinically dead.  
  
Hammond watched from a distance, standing beside the man he’d just discovered was O’Neill himself. ‘It can’t be easy, watching yourself like this,’ Hammond thought as they prepared to move the Colonel from the gurney into the waiting sarcophagus.  
  
“On three,” Fraiser directed, “one, two, three.” Six orderlies slipped the Colonel, sheets and all, into the alien device.  
  
“How long should this take?” Hammond asked the man beside him.  
  
“It depends on the injury. JFK used that damned thing repeatedly after he was assassinated. He was dead, too. It took him months to come back to anything like normal,” O’Neill answered.  
  
“And you? How did the Colonel handle it?” Hammond asked.  
  
“It took a while. He makes it,” O’Neill replied. “Without the sarcophagus, it’ll just take a little longer.”  
  
“Any advice you’d like to give me on his behalf, Jack?” Hammond asked, smiling.  
  
“Nothing,” O’Neill replied.  
  
Before Hammond could press him for more details on the Colonel’s immediate future, Daniel Jackson interrupted.  
  
“Gorlagon. Can we have that chat you promised me?” Daniel asked.  
  
Jack looked at Daniel and said, “The General knows, too, Daniel. Apparently, I’m slipping on the covert side after all these years. Sure, lets get a cup of real mess hall coffee. I don’t know when I’ll ever find some again. Excuse us, please, General Hammond. It’s been great seeing you again and … thanks for everything, George.”  
  
Jack gripped Hammond’s hand firmly and then stepped in close and embraced the General, whispering in his ear, “Send him to Bermuda, if he gets out of hand, George. He’s always wanted to go.”  
  
Then he turned, placed a hand on Jackson’s shoulder and led him out of the Gate room.  
  
 _ **Chapter 4. Gorlagon’s Tale  
**_  
Jack sipped his coffee and tried not to grin as he watched Daniel gingerly lower himself into a chair.  
  
When Daniel was settled, he said, “ I suppose you have some questions for me. But, Danny, you gotta understand that most of what’s gonna happen during your lifetime I can’t tell you about. Let’s just say that things work out. Aside from that?  
  
Well, a few years from now, I’ll go out and I won’t come back, at least not for a long, long time. When it happens, just remember. I knew it was dangerous, just like all the SG-1 missions. That one will be no different.”  
  
“Except you don’t come back,” Daniel snapped back, jabbing his fork into a slice of pumpkin pie. Jack said nothing. He just reached over and swiped a chunk of pie from Jackson’s plate.  
  
So, Daniel continued. “We’re along?”  
  
Jack shook his head. “Negative. You know I can’t tell you any details, Danny. Sorry, there’s that whole ‘corruption of the timeline thing’ that Sam was so concerned about back in 1969. I’ll just say that I didn’t go alone,” Jack said.  
  
He hesitated, examined the contents of his coffee cup, but then continued, like he was describing traffic on his morning commute. “Anyway, I had orders to lead the mission and I did. I guess you don’t need to be told that it went to hell. I ended up separated from the team and….”  
  
Jack stopped, clapped his mouth shut and then rubbed his head in frustration. “You know, it’s damned hard to know how much of this I can say without screwing up the future.” He sighed then and said, “Maybe it’s not too much to say there was … this … powerful machine … out there … somewhere. You won’t be able to find it, even if you look, but do us both a favor and don’t look. I know you’ll be tempted, but trust me on this. DON’T LOOK! Anyway, the point is, it caught me and … sent me back.”  
  
“To when, to where!” Daniel asked.  
  
“I had no idea at first. I was, alone, floating on the open ocean ‘til I was nearly dead. I had no clue that anything had happened, except that I’d stepped through the Gate and into an ocean in the middle of the biggest honking storm I’ve ever seen in my life.”  
  
“How did you survive?” Daniel urged.  
  
“Luck. The clouds cleared. The sun came out and I got lucky. I guess you’d call it luck. I spent a lot of years wondering whether it was luck or some sort of … penance … for… Forget it. It doesn’t matter anymore.”  
  
“So, there was a ship. It was long and low, a large open boat with oars. It skimmed the ocean like a great big water strider. The lookout saw me, I guess. The thing swung around. They dragged me aboard, fed me and saved my life. It took a while, but when I’d recovered they handed me an oar and suggested I work for my keep. I was grateful and glad to do anything other than worry about what had happened to the others. So, I rowed. Only thing, later I found out I wasn’t being invited to row. I wasn’t their guest. I was a slave. Who knew? It really wasn’t much different from boot camp.”  
  
“Danny, you would’ve hated it, but I loved these guys. They were like the guys I used to work with in Special Forces. It was great! Fishing all day, sleeping under the stars, nothing to worry about, nothing to do except row and swap stories. No paperwork. They spoke a weird dialect. It turned out to be Old Norse, but I didn’t know that right away.”  
  
“The thing is, I spent summers in Northern Minnesota with mom’s folks, ya’ know? So, it was familiar, a lot like the stuff I heard the old folks talk around my grandpa’s farm. I listened and recognize a word or two. Then I tried out what I remembered, a joke my grandpa had taught me. Dirty. I made them laugh. Then some of the guys started teaching me. From there, I caught on to the rest pretty quick.”  
  
“So, we rowed for a few … weeks, I guess. We lived on fresh fish when we caught it, and when we didn’t, we ate dried fish, cheese and a lot of other dried stuff they had with them. There was milk from a couple of goats. We rowed all day, telling stories and talking about nothing in particular. I fell into the routine. I had no other choice, until we reached civilization. After a while, I stopped worrying about what had happened. It felt good, I gotta admit, not to be in charge, not to be responsible for anything for a while. At first, it was like a vacation.”  
  
“We sighted land one day. It was Iceland. I knew that when I saw the glaciers and volcanoes. Only the air base wasn’t there, neither was the city, or Olympic stadium or … anything. It was empty, pretty much, except for a fishing village on the coast and farmsteads scattered across the areas not buried under ice or threatened by the volcanic flows,” Jack sipped his coffee thoughtfully, his mind elsewhere.  
  
“You must have been …” Daniel paused, searching for the right word.  
  
Jack nodded his head, “Yeah, I was shocked all right. I tried to explain that I had to get home. That’s when I found out I wasn’t going anywhere, even if I could have found a way back, even if I had any idea of where I was going.”  
  
Jack stopped with that far-away look in his eyes that Daniel had always associated with Jack’s time as a POW in Iraq. “They clapped a leg iron on me and put me to work. After a while, quite a while, they started trusting me more and let me work in the fields. It wasn’t so bad. They just worked me hard and didn’t feed me enough. I’ve been through worse.”  
  
“It only got really bad later. These folks made a living by farming, fishing and raiding. The ships left after spring planting. The women, kids and slaves kept the fields. Ships returned in autumn and the men helped with the harvest.”  
  
“Danny-boy, those were some wild times. Those guys knew how to party. So, anyhow, one ship returned with sick aboard. It was smallpox. Everybody got it and everybody died; everybody, but me. I had a vaccination when I was a kid, and got boosters every few years because of my work. So, I was immune. No one else was. After awhile, I was alone.”  
  
“I survived. There was plenty to eat. The stock were alive. I buried the village when spring came. I loaded all the food and water I could carry on one of the smaller long ships, rigged a sail, and left.”  
  
“I remembered enough from high school history to know I wouldn’t get far if I headed for North America. So, I followed the Gulf Stream, heading for Western Europe. Norway was only 650 miles away.”  
  
“It was a long trip. I missed my turn. I ran out of water first, then food. Eventually, I saw what I mistook for the outer islands of Norway. It turned out I landed on the extreme southwestern tip of Great Britain.”  
  
“I reached land and realized I’d made a mistake. It was Wales. It looked pretty dangerous. I’m a big guy. I was in a Viking ship and I only spoke Old Norse and modern English and a smattering of Arabic. I could tell the people who saw me were not pleased to meet me.”  
  
“So, I lied. I told them I was a priest. I spoke scraps of Latin to them, stuff I remembered from the Mass. I think it saved my life.”  
  
“They handed me over to the local Church officials. After a while, I found out the year. It was 495 AD. I was trapped. There was no Gate, no Carter to save my butt. There wasn’t a damned thing I could do to save myself, so I became a monk.”  
  
Jack glowered at Daniel, waiting for some smart-ass remark. Daniel stared back, a thousand questions vying for his attention, so instead he said simply, “A monk. How’d that work out for you?”  
  
Jack relaxed and replied, “Pretty well, surprisingly. I didn’t have nearly the trouble with abstinence or obedience that I thought I would. Silence was my problem. I took more than a few beatings for wisecracks.”  
  
Daniel grinned, “The General would be pleased.”  
  
Jack grinned back and said, “You’re not going to tell him. Right?”  
  
“Right.” Daniel answered aloud, but thought, ‘maybe.’  
  
“Jack, you know the Norse didn’t settle Iceland until 800 AD. Your dates don’t work out.”  
  
O’Neill smiled grimly, “Yeah, well. Re-check your dates, Danny. I was there -- remember? Everyone died. Maybe the folks who came in 800 thought they were the first ones there. If you look you’ll find the graves. I put some along the cliffs, lined them with red clay, piled their goods in with them and covered them with as many rocks as I could carry. That’s how they did it back then. Believe me, I saw more than a few funerals. Maybe some are still out there.”  
  
“Red clay.” Daniel said, hiding his excitement.  
  
“Yeah,” O’Neill answered. “I bet some are still out there.”  
  
“So,” Daniel said, “tell me about your time in Great Britain.”  
  
“It wasn’t Great Britain, not yet. I landed in an area known as Demoniac to historians. It’s what would be southern Wales nowadays. It turned out that my name, O’Neill, was well known even there. Somehow they got the idea that I was some sort of landed gentry, a rich heathen from Ireland, who wanted to convert to Christianity.”  
  
“They made a really big deal about it. Eventually, they shipped me back ‘home’ to Ireland with orders from Rome to say ‘hi’ to my family and friends and preach the word of the lord. But, let’s not go into that, okay? It didn’t really work out the way they’d hoped.”  
  
“Just tell me the year, Jack.” Daniel said, already knowing somehow.  
  
“496, three years after St. Patrick died. I was his replacement.” Jack answered glumly.  
  
“And it didn’t work out because, instead of preaching you led a local insurrection.” Daniel filled in the details from memory, “the battle of Druim Lochmaighe.”  
  
Jack just glared at him, reluctant to confirm what they both knew was the obvious truth. Finally he said, “We got our ass kicked. I learned that I couldn’t interfere.” Jack drained his coffee cup and pushed his chair back. “Daniel, I hate to say it, but it’s time for me to go.”  
  
He stood and headed for the Gate room, the younger man at his heels. Suddenly, outside of Sam’s office, he stopped and asked, “How’s she doing?”  
  
“Go and see for yourself. She’s in the infirmary.”  
  
Jack fixed him with his patented ‘how many times I gotta ask you?’ look and Daniel shrugged. “She’s recovering from a sunburn and exposure. She’s been asking about you, too. Why you haven’t stopped by to see her.”  
  
Jack shook his head, “Negative. She’s asking about the Colonel, the other guy.”  
  
“Sam’s asking about the man who saved her life, held her through ten hours of a Class-3 hurricane in an open boat at sea, and then vanished. She’s asking about you. She’s wondering if she was hallucinating it all. I haven’t told her anything, Jack,” Daniel replied. “But you need to see her. She should know.”  
  
“No,” Jack said softly, “she needs not to know. And on that theme, what other burning  
questions of ancient personal history do you want answered in the next three minutes?”  
  
“What happened to you?” Daniel asked again.  
  
“Can’t say. Sorry,” Jack fired back. “Nothing else? I thought you were the curious sort.”  
  
“How did you join up with M and the rest? They’re Goa’uld,” Danny asked.  
  
“Almost Goa’uld. Not quite or we’d be in a lot of trouble. I met M and her family through the monastery. Among other things they converted me, and ‘no’, I am not talking about Christianity. She gave me no choice in the matter.”  
  
Daniel asked, “Is that what happened to your voice?”  
  
Jack nodded, “Yeah, they’d never blended an adult. I’m one of a kind.”  
Daniel replied, “I wondered what could make you chose to accept a Goa’uld.”  
  
“Nothing,” Jack snapped sourly. “Nothing, but like I said, it wasn’t a choice. That’s a whole different story, one you don’t need to hear. In fact, you know all you need to know.” Then he started resolutely down the hall.  
  
“And nothing at all for Sam?” Daniel asked, almost pleading.  
  
O’Neill stopped and wheeled. “Yeah, there’s this. After the Colonel’s gone, you can tell her everything. I just wanted … someone to understand what will happen … someday. So you can let Sam know that everything will be all right. Tell her I won’t do anything stupid. Tell her I miss you all … a lot. Tell her I didn’t have a choice. I didn’t choose to go. That’s important, okay? And… tell her … not to wait. I won’t be back.”  
  
Daniel looked at the old man and nodded somberly. “Right. She’ll get your message, Jack. I promise.”  
  
Jack spun on his heel and jogged down the hall. Daniel followed more slowly, hampered by his wound. He turned the corner into the Gate room in time to see O’Neill mount the platform and turn toward the shimmering pool of light. The last members of the family had disappeared.  
  
Jack walked up to the event horizon, pulled his cloak around him, turned and flashed a grin from within the hood.  
  
He said, “Have a good life, Danny. Give Sam a hug for me.” Then, he stepped through the Star Gate and was gone.  
  
  
  



	4. Part 4 - Broken

  
Author's notes: Jack's going to pay for his mistakes ... or die trying!  


* * *

**Part IV: Broken  
**  
  
“Colonel O’Neill… Sit…Down!” Hammond roared. O’Neill obeyed, silent but dark eyes smoldering.  
  
Hammond took a long drink of water, playing for time for his own fury to subside. Jack O’Neill had been an insubordinate pain in the butt, since before they’d ever met. Despite himself, Hammond liked the man. He admired him and had come to count him among his closest friends. For three weeks, the General had dreaded this formal inquiry.  
  
The meeting had started respectfully. Jack had stepped into the conference room promptly at oh-eight-hundred hours. Immaculate in his dress uniform, he snapped a smart salute and announced, “Colonel Jack O’Neill, reporting as ordered.”  
  
The glacial chill off O’Neill’s attitude had made Hammond’s guts shiver.  
  
“Be seated, Colonel,” Hammond ordered. As Jack walked to a chair, Hammond noted the Colonel’s slightly stiff movements and the bit of white bandage under his left shirt cuff. Those were the only hints that O’Neill had been clinically dead 21 days ago.  
  
General Hammond glanced at Doctor Fraiser. The Doctor lifted her eyebrows slightly in silent agreement. This inquiry was not going to go smoothly. And that, Hammond thought, was a damned shame. None of it was necessary, if Jack would just listen to reason. But Jack wasn’t listening.  
  
Hammond began. “Colonel O’Neill, thank you for joining us. Do you understand the nature of this inquiry?”  
  
O’Neill nodded slightly, “I do, General.”  
  
Hammond continued, “Even so, let me review it, just to make sure we are all on the same page. I was ordered by the Senate Armed Forces Oversight Committee to conduct this interview with you to create a formal record on three specific areas. First, you will provide details of the course of events that led up to your involvement with the alien force, known to us as the Yult. Second, you will tell us everything you know about their technology and military capabilities and about the assault on this facility. Third, I will be asking you specifics about the involvement in the assault of Senator Edward “Teddy” Kennedy and other members of the Kennedy family. Is that perfectly clear, Colonel?”  
  
“Yes, Sir,” O’Neill answered.  
  
Hammond nodded, “Good. And, Colonel, Doctor Fraiser is here at your request.”  
  
Jack nodded, “Yes, Sir.”  
  
“Colonel, you understand that you have a right to a senior officer present on your behalf, or an attorney can be assigned by the JAG, if you request it. Would you care to avail yourself of these rights?”  
  
“No, Sir.”  
  
Hammond sighed and said, “Okay, then. Let’s begin.”  
  
“No, Sir,” O’Neill stated.  
  
Hammond had stared and said, “Excuse me, Colonel?”  
  
“Sir, I prefer not to begin these proceedings. I’ve already given a full and complete report of my involvement with the Yult. I formally request immediate general courts martial, under Regulation 27-10, Uniform Code of Military Justice General Article 15, as is my right,” O’Neill stated softly.  
  
There was an awkward silence.  
  
Hammond looked from O’Neill to Fraiser. Jack was still boring a hole in the wall midway between them. The Doctor looked like she wanted to evaporate. Both Hammond and Fraiser had thought she was there on Jack’s behalf. Now, it was clear he had requested her as a second officer to witness his demand. Hammond took a deep breath before he spoke.  
  
“Jack, you’ve been through more than I can imagine. I want you to consider carefully what’s at stake here, Colonel. It’s not just your career. It could be your life. I don’t want to risk that, Son. Even though it is perfectly clear to anyone with an ounce of reason that you were under alien influence.”  
  
O’Neill’s eyes shifted to fix the General’s own and he said. “May I quote you, Sir? I believe your words were: ‘“Colonel O’Neill, your actions go way beyond treason. If they’re true, I’ll have you put against a wall and shot. As for blaming you, you’d better pray that no one dies because of you, O’Neill. If that happens, you’re damned right it’s on you, and on me for trusting a stupid son-of-a-bitch.’”  
  
Hammond gaped and then gathered himself to growl, “Colonel you are taking that entirely out of context, and you know it.”  
  
“No, Sir. I don’t. In fact, I agree with you, Sir. I have made my actions known to you twice informally and now hereby formally...”  
  
Hammond barked sharply, “Stand down, Colonel. Not another word!”  
  
Jack lunged across the table and shouted down Hammond’s order, “And now formally notify you that I gave willing aid and assistance to a hostile alien force against my command! I am a traitor and I respectfully request you convene a formal courts martial, General!”  
  
“Colonel O’Neill… Sit…Down!” Hammond roared. O’Neill obeyed. “Respectfully, my ass, Jack!” Hammond fumed, then reached for the water pitcher. His hand trembled with rage.  
  
The room was silent, except for the sound of ice cubes tinkling, as the General poured a glass of ice water, and then took a long, long sip. He looked over the rim of his glass at the court reporter, poised to capture the next spoken words. Hammond carefully put down the glass. He glanced at Fraiser. She nodded slightly and spoke.  
  
“General Hammond, Colonel O’Neill, I request a recess of these proceedings, pending examination of the Colonel.”  
  
Hammond picked up his cue without missing a beat, “On what grounds, Doctor?”  
  
“I believe the Colonel is suffering from post-traumatic stress, General. I believe he isn’t currently fit to participate in these proceedings on his own behalf,” Fraiser stated calmly.  
  
Hammond gathered himself, as O’Neill turned to glare at her, wondering if the man had actually snapped. The General could feel grief and anger radiating off O’Neill, like the noonday sun off Texas tarmac.  
  
Fraiser felt it, too, but forged on. “Furthermore, General Hammond, Colonel O’Neill. I am concerned that the Colonel may do harm to himself or others without an immediate recess and a psychological and physical evaluation and, if necessary, treatment.”  
  
Hammond saw O’Neill pale. His fists clenched and, for one very bad moment, Hammond feared the former SF might actually assault the diminutive Doctor Fraiser. Clearly he felt betrayed, but the moment passed. O’Neill shifted his glare back to a studious 40-yard stare, fixed on that invisible point on the wall.  
  
“Very well Doctor,” Hammond said softly. “Colonel O’Neill you are ordered to accompany the Doctor. You will cooperate in any procedures she sees fit to run to determine your soundness of mind and fitness to participate in these proceedings on your own behalf. Colonel, if you are found unfit, you will have representation in this investigation, whether you want it or not. You are not confined to the base, Colonel, unless the Doctor feels that is necessary. If she doesn’t, I don’t want to see your face around here, until I order you to report for duty. Dismissed.”  
  
O’Neill stood stiffly and started to follow Fraiser out of the room, but stopped when Hammond reached out and touched his sleeve.  
  
“Jack, this is just plain stupid. Nobody wants this courts martial. You may think you do, Son, but take some time and think before you make it official.”  
  
O’Neill stopped. Hammond looked up at his 2IC. The man wouldn’t meet his gaze.  
  
After a moment Hammond concluded, “That is all, Colonel.”  
  
  
ΩΩΩ  
  
Carter ran a towel lightly over her damp hair and picked up the telephone, dialed and heard the phone ringing. A moment later, Janet Fraiser’s voice answered.  
  
“Hello?”  
  
“Hi, Janet! It’s Sam. Can you talk?” Carter asked.  
  
“Sam … hello,” Fraiser responded. “Sure, we just finished dinner and I’m drinking a glass of wine. The dishes can wait.”  
  
“Celebrating? How’d it go?” Carter asked eagerly.  
  
“The inquiry?” Fraiser hesitated and Sam’s heart sunk. “Not well. Sorry, Sam.”  
  
“What went wrong?” Carter asked already knowing from Fraiser’s tone that the Colonel had thrown himself on a professional landmine.  
  
“Colonel O’Neill demanded that General Hammond courts martial him. Aside from that, not much else. Oh, except that I’ve got him in the psych ward overnight on suicide watch.”  
  
“The Colonel!” Carter demanded.  
  
“No, General Hammond. Of course the Colonel,” Fraiser shot back. “Look Sam, I’m sorry. I really am, but I had to take a hard look at Jack today and the man needs my help, whether he wants it or not. I’m really concerned.”  
  
“How much do you think humiliating him will help?” Carter replied hotly.  
  
“I know, but Sam he backed us into a corner. He was pushing for immediate legal action. He’s trying to throw it all away. The General gave me the sign and I stepped in. Unfit for duty was all I had to work with and, frankly, his behavior fits. He’d just finished a shouting match with the General, on the record. General Hammond even tried to speak to him after the official meeting, but Jack wouldn’t answer, wouldn’t even look at him. Jack’s … never mind. I shouldn’t discuss the details of this with you. I know better.”  
  
“Yeah,” Carter replied. “Thanks for the information. Can you at least tell me what happens next?”  
  
“He’ll be sent home, once I’m satisfied that he’ll be alright on his own. Then, we’ll see.” Fraiser sighed. “Sam, this was so hard. I just hope I did the right thing today.”  
  
“He was rough on you?” Carter asked.  
  
“He wanted to clock me when I said he was unfit. He didn’t speak to me through the entire examination process, spoke to the technician when he had to answer.” Fraiser sighed, sipped her wine and admitted, “I can’t blame him. We both know he’s not nuts.”  
  
“Just hell bent on self destruction,” Carter agreed. “But if that’s not the definition of unfit, I don’t know what is, Janet.”  
  
“It’s not the what that bothers me, it’s the why,” Fraiser sighed. “Why.”  
  
“Do you understand it? Do you know why?” Carter asked, intrigued.  
  
“I think I understand some of it. I can’t discuss it,” Fraiser answered.  
  
“Of course not, Janet,” Carter agreed.  
  
“But, I’ll talk with Doc Mackenzie tomorrow morning,” Fraiser admitted.  
  
“Mackenzie,” Carter said the name like it left a bad taste.  
  
“Yeah, I know, Sam. But he’s good at what he does and he understands a lot more than you ground-pounders give him credit for. He can help Jack,” Fraiser stated.  
  
“Not if the Colonel won’t talk to him, and he won’t you know.” Carter countered.  
  
“I hope you’re wrong about that, Sam. I really do.” Fraiser sighed. Then, trying to brighten the mood, she changed the subject. “So how’s Bermuda?”  
  
“Better than the last time I was here. Teal’c and Daniel are keeping busy diving for artifacts. I’ve got a dream team of divers. A couple of them are also the best scientists I’ve ever met. We’ve made tremendous progress already. Wish I didn’t have to be here right now, but I have to admit. It’s really great, Janet.” Carter admitted. “Just don’t tell the Colonel, okay?”  
  
“I don’t think that’s much of a danger. We’re not exactly on speaking terms, Sam,” Fraiser said.  
  
 _ **Fifth Column  
**_  
Sergeant Shirley Stone of SGC security dialed the Triangle Project at precisely 19:22 Mountain Time. The phone rang once. Angstrom answered.  
  
“Yeah?” he said.  
  
“Doctor?” Shirley asked.  
  
“Yeah? What’s up?” he replied.  
  
“O’Neill’s as good as out,” Stone reported.  
  
“Out?” Angstrom asked.  
  
Stone continued, “Word is he’s in the lock up on suicide watch. He totally lost it. In the morning he’ll be sent down to the funny farm for evaluation,” she cooed. “So? Do you want him to make it … or not?”  
  
“Too risky. Leave it to me,” Angstrom ordered and hung up. He walked to his fridge and took out a bottle of beer. He smiled as he popped the cap off. Things were going smoothly. He stepped onto his patio. It was a beautiful night. He could smell flowers and the surf was pounding. ‘This is cause for celebration,’ he thought. Then, ever so softly, his eyes glowed.  
  
Angstrom took another swig of beer and crossed the compound to Sam Carter’s bungalow. He stepped up onto her porch and knocked on the door. “Sam?” he called out. “You awake?”  
  
The door opened and Sam smiled up at him. Her eyes were red. She’d been crying again.  
  
“You okay?” he asked.  
  
“Fine,” she said. “Come in.”  
  
“No,” Angstrom smiled taking her hand. “You come out, Major. It’s a beautiful night. Let’s take a walk.” She hesitated so he continued. “Maybe we can solve that energy flux problem.” That did the trick.  
  
“Sure, Zeek,” she said, letting him pull her out onto the porch. “I’ve been thinking about trying a different matrix.”  
  
Angstrom entwined his fingers in hers. He turned and smiled as she talked. The clouds lifted and she smiled back, squeezing his hand. He led her down to the beach, letting her talk, pretending to be interested.  
  
  
ΩΩΩ  
  
The next morning, Doctor Fraiser joined Mackenzie and Hammond for a briefing to prepare for Mackenzie’s upcoming assessment of Colonel O’Neill. Hammond had suggested the briefing, but left the details in Fraiser’s hands. She smiled cordially at Doctor Mackenzie, said “Good Morning General Hammond,” and took her seat at the General’s right hand.  
  
“Doctor Mackenzie,” she began, “Thank you for agreeing to meet with us this morning about Colonel O’Neill. We thought some background information might be helpful.  
  
Mackenzie nodded amiably and said, “Certainly Doctor, any insight you can offer would be most welcome.”  
  
Fraiser continued, “Yesterday morning, Colonel O’Neill exhibited extreme behavior.”  
  
Mackenzie interjected, “I saw the file. While extraordinary in most people, it isn’t outside the norm for Colonel O’Neill, when you take into account his entire medical and military record.”  
  
“True,” Fraiser admitted. “I intervened because I’m concerned that the Colonel is bent on self-destruction, driven by unwarranted guilt over recent events.”  
  
“Oh?” Mackenzie leaned forward, “What events?”  
  
Hammond cleared his throat and said, “In simple terms, the Colonel was involved in an attempted incursion into the SGC five weeks ago by a group of aliens we term the Yult. We believe, and the medical evidence indicates, that Colonel O’Neill was under the influence of an alien leader, something like a ‘queen’ bee, with the ability to control male humans through powerful pheromones.”  
  
Fraiser elaborated, “Just after their attempt was put down, the Yult returned Colonel O’Neill to us, unconscious. He was badly injured. His condition grew steadily worse through the course of three days. Despite this, the Colonel’s first conscious act was to warn us of the danger and confess to the General that he’d cooperated with these aliens. He has made similar declarations twice since then, including a formal statement yesterday morning, on the record, when he demanded courts martial.”  
  
“You believe he was under these aliens’ control? He wouldn’t have cooperated otherwise?” Mackenzie asked.  
  
“Yes, we do, Doctor Mackenzie,” Doctor Fraiser stated firmly. “It’s happened before when the SGC was attacked by Hathor. All the SGC males, including the Colonel and General Hammond, were affected. Recognizing the similarities, I checked the Colonel’s blood levels and found the same increased levels of pheromones.”  
  
“Did anyone else fall under this ‘queen’s’ spell this time, General?” Mackenzie asked.  
  
“No, not to my knowledge,” Hammond answered. “But the queen involved in this incident was in contact with the Colonel for almost two weeks. She passed through the SGC only after I’d ordered MOP 5 precautions and brought in an all-female security contingent as a precaution.”  
  
“So Colonel O’Neill was the only man to fall prey to her wiles?” Mackenzie concluded.  
  
“That’s right,” Fraiser said reluctantly. “But the point is that the Colonel was held for much longer, without protection and that is what led to his actions, not some disregard of his duties.”  
  
“You’ve told him that?” Mackenzie asked.  
  
Hammond and Fraiser both nodded.  
  
“But he won’t accept it, Doctor?” Mackenzie concluded.  
  
“No,” Fraiser agreed.  
  
“And you think that makes him unfit? Well, I disagree. The Colonel’s difference of opinion with you and the General as to his culpability doesn’t make him unfit to stand in his own defense. Culpability. It’s a subject he must certainly be sole judge of. Who would know better whether he did right or wrong?”  
  
Fraiser snapped back, “There’s more to it than that, Doctor Mackenzie. He …” She stopped, searching for the right words, couldn’t seem to find them and then plunged on desperately.  
  
“The Colonel came back to us in bad shape, very bad shape,” she said as evenly as possible. “I couldn’t stop it. There was nothing I could do, but watch. He’s a proud man, a strong man. Doctor, he begged forgiveness on his deathbed.”  
  
“Forgiveness from you?” Mackenzie asked pointedly.  
  
“No, from his 2IC, from Major Carter.” Fraiser admitted softly.  
  
“Ah, well,” Mackenzie said dismissively, and changed the subject. “Doctor Fraiser, I don’t doubt that the Colonel is sorry, but remorse doesn’t preclude punishment of the guilty. Otherwise, we would punish no one but psychopaths. It sounds like the Colonel is feeling pretty guilty, and that’s a natural, normal reaction, although it can seem extreme in extreme situations, like this one. We have a man known for his stubborn resolve and high professional standards of performance. He’s as unforgiving of himself as he is of others, more so in fact. “  
  
“Then one day, he doesn’t measure up. He puts his team at risk. Did anyone die? No? Well there’s a mercy. So, this man confesses to you, General and to you Doctor -- Three times. You do nothing about it. You tell him he’s mistaken. He knows your high regard for him, your affection, and your friendship. He sees it preventing you from punishing him as he deserves. He may even be right, by the way. So, what does such a man do?”  
  
“Demands a courts martial,” Hammond said sadly, “dammit.”  
  
“And when you won’t give him that form of resolution, what could you expect from this man?” Mackenzie posed, steepling his fingers. When neither Hammond nor Fraiser answered, Mackenzie continued. “I’d say, from my knowledge of Colonel Jack O’Neill, that he’s a man able and willing to take the matter into his own hands.”  
  
“Abydos,” Fraiser breathed the word.  
  
Hammond echoed it. “Abydos, after he made a fatal mistake and his son was killed. My god, and I told him I’d have him put against a wall and shot. That’s what started all this nonsense. What was I thinking?”  
  
Mackenzie smiled and said gently, “You were thinking of him, I’d guess. We all send signals, telling others how we need them to treat us. You’ve worked with the Colonel a long time, almost six years now, and you’ve worked well together. I’d say that’s due to the way you read the man and respond to his signals. “  
  
“On some level, General Hammond, you knew he’d worry about it and perform pretty much as he is right now. The man was very badly injured. You decided to take this off his plate, to give him some peace of mind. So, you told him he was in trouble. It was a lie, but you were going to have a talk with him when he recovered. It was a kind thing to do. At the moment it might have been the right thing to do. But, at rock bottom, it was dishonest. It undermines his faith in his friends at a time when he needs you most.” Mackenzie paused and gazed from Fraiser to Hammond.  
  
He continued. “You aren’t going to like this suggestion, but please hear me out. Perhaps the most humane thing would be to offer the Colonel a section 8 discharge.”  
  
Hammond growled, “It would be the end of him.”  
  
Mackenzie countered, “That’s debatable General, but for the moment, okay. If that seems too harsh after his extraordinary service, use a medical discharge. I noted in his records that he’s torn the tendons in his left wrist and might not get full use of it back. That would do.”  
  
Mackenzie turned to Hammond, “General, it seems unkind. You are a caring man. Jack O’Neill is your friend. But, consider: Your friend, Jack O’Neill, has failed Colonel O’Neill. The Colonel is one tough, unforgiving bastard. We all know it. The Colonel is a hard man, especially on people closest to him.”  
  
Mackenzie turned to Fraiser, “I understand he’s giving you a particularly rough time. Here’s why. Colonel O’Neill knows he let you all down. The more you try to argue with him, the worse this will get for him, for you all. You have to let him go, punish him, or risk losing him."  
  
"The tragedy of it is that I knew this was coming the first time I met the man. None of us is perfect, but he holds himself to that standard. Now he’s missed the mark. By his moral code, he must to pay the price, one way or another. All you can do is to try to find a positive way, so he doesn’t destroy himself and alienate all of you.”  
  
“If you think this assessment is too harsh, General Hammond,” Mackenzie added, “consider this man’s deeper motives. He leads to protect, not from ego or a power rush. Military leadership is a cross to bear. He will bear it, until you let him lay it down. Maybe this is the time to seriously consider it. You might be saving your friend’s life.”  
  
“Whatever decision you make," Mackenzie concluded, as he pushed his chair away from the table, "at this point, it’s not about his fitness for duty. The man is as sane as I am. He’s always been on the self-destructive side, but he’s not at the brink just now. He is suffering a severe crisis of confidence and of conscience. He doesn’t need a shrink. He needs friends, friends to be honest with him, to help him put down the load if he can’t carry it.”  
  
With that Mackenzie stood. “Doctor Fraiser, I’m sorry I can’t be of any real assistance on this. If you find Jack is truly suffering from post-traumatic stress or exhibits real signs he might hurt himself, please be sure to call me in on the case. The man’s nerves have got to be made of spun steel to have held up this long. I’d be glad to consult. But … not on this. Not yet. General, if I may?”  
  
Hammond nodded, “Thank you Doctor. Dismissed.” Then he looked at Fraiser and said, “I guess we need to talk to him. You’re first, Doctor.”  
  
“Me,” Janet objected, “why me?”  
  
Hammond smiled sadly, “because I’m a General and you aren’t. Please give Jack my best.”  
  
  
ΩΩΩ  
  
Jack O’Neill was on the floor of his private ‘padded room’ doing push-ups. “48, 49, 50,” he grunted out and then collapsed on the floor heaving. “God that hurts,” he muttered and rolled to a seated position and began stretching his legs, groaning softly as he pressed his torso slowly down toward his knee.  
  
“Arrghh,” he growled as his nose touched a thigh. A rap at the door brought him upright. He struggled to his feet and said, “Come on in, it’s unlocked from your side.”  
  
Janet Fraiser opened the door and entered the room. “May I, Colonel O’Neill?” She asked, as she sat on his bunk.  
  
Jack didn’t answer, exactly, but grunted and turned away. He continued his workout facing the wall. He couldn’t look at her. He was furious. His heart hammered wildly. He had an irrational sense of being trapped, powerless, out of control. The feelings were strong. They’d persisted for weeks, since the moment he opened his eyes in the Infirmary, these feelings, not memories exactly, haunted him ever since Iraq.  
  
Iraq. He didn’t know what happened there – not all of it. He didn’t want to know. He’d failed, somehow. Other men had died. He’d put those feelings away. For a while, he’d locked them away. Now they were back, gnawing at him like it had all been yesterday.  
  
“Jack,” Fraiser began, “I’m here to apologize to you for yesterday. I’m also releasing you on your own recognizance. The General spoke to me today and asked how you are recuperating. I had to tell him your left arm is still problematic. I’m sorry for that, but it’s my duty, Colonel.”  
  
Jack stopped when he heard her pause and then the unnerving sound of Janet Fraiser sniffling. He turned. The tough little Doctor was in tears. Jack crossed the room immediately, sat and wrapped her in his arms, feeling her shaking as she tried to stop.  
  
“Shh, Janet,” Jack comforted her. “Geez, don’t cry. You never cry. Doc, I’m not mad at you. Shh. Hey!” He gave her a little shake, “What’s the matter with you?”  
  
“It’s just been so … hard, Jack,” Janet whispered, apparently mortified at her display of feminine emotions. “I lost you, Jack. I saw you dead, watched you die, and it was very, very … sad!” More tears flowed then and Jack just let them fall, holding his friend gently, feeling her shoulders shake harder as she let it out.  
  
“And … you’ve been so… angry, since then. You should be …” she choked back the word and Jack completed it with his own. “I should be grateful, Janet. I should be damned grateful. I don’t know how you keep doing it. Thank you and I’m sorry that I’ve been so … pissed off. I’m a jerk.”  
  
“That’s not what I was going to say. I was going for ‘glad to be alive,’ but it’s true. You should be grateful, too. So why aren’t you, you jerk?” Janet asked, a slight trepidation in her voice.  
  
“Because … I’m pissed,” Jack sighed. “At myself, at you.”  
  
“Me?” Janet pulled away, shocked.  
  
“You ignored my living will, Janet. When I made that choice, I counted on you to respect it. You didn’t. So, weird as it sounds from a man who really is grateful to be alive, I’m also pretty pissed off,” Jack said sadly.  
  
“It’s crazy. I did the same thing to Sara. After Charlie died, I got pissed off, too. I should have been grateful that she didn’t spit in my face or have me locked up, but I couldn’t find it inside. I was just pissed off and when she tried to … do … anything, it only got worse.”  
  
“People make mistakes, Colonel,” Janet said softly.  
  
“I know,” Jack answered, “but that’s no excuse.”  
  
Jack put his arm back around Janet and pulled her in close in a brotherly hug. “I’m sorry. I am grateful, really I am. So,” he tilted up her chin and smiled, “now what? Are you busting me out of here or am I still ‘a risk to myself and others’?”  
  
Janet smiled back, “Colonel, you’re a definite risk, but I’m letting you out anyway. The General wants to see you.”  
  
Jack gently wiped her tears away with his thumb and said, “Good.”  
  
  
ΩΩΩ  
  
Jack stepped into General Hammond’s office punctually. “Morning General,” he said, not certain of the reception he’d get.  
  
“Take a seat, Colonel,” Hammond said. “How’s the wrist?”  
  
O’Neill lied, “Much better, Sir.”  
  
“Bull hockey,” Hammond grunted. “I can see it’s still a wreck, even through the tape, Colonel. Besides, Doctor Fraiser keeps me informed. It’s not better.”  
  
Jack shook his head, “Right, she told me.”  
  
“Doctor Fraiser is only doing her job, Colonel.” Hammond replied. “I’d think you’d be grateful. You know she barely left your side for three days when we got you back? For the past three weeks, she’s been here more than I have – all of it to put you back together. Show her some gratitude, why don’t you?”  
  
O’Neill’s eyes dropped to his boots, and he said, “Yes, Sir. I am grateful. I told Doctor Fraiser that this morning when I apologized to her.”  
  
“That’s good, Colonel,” Hammond allowed himself a slight smile.  
  
“I owe you an apology, as well. I sincerely regret any disrespect, General Hammond. I was way out of line yesterday,” Jack stated soberly.  
  
“Yes, you were, Jack. Apology accepted,” Hammond replied, his smile gone. “That’s not why I asked you here. Jack, I am your friend. I am also Commander of SGC and that comes first. I am responsible for the welfare of all my people, including you Colonel.”  
  
Hammond stopped, took a breath and plunged on. “You screwed up, Colonel, badly; Either when the Yult had you, or since then by running around demanding a courts martial. Yesterday you put it on the record. Now I’ve got to deal with it.”  
  
“So listen and listen good, Colonel O’Neill. I am ordering you to a new posting, pending resolution of this matter. You will be on the next plane to Bermuda, from there to the Triangle Project site. As of now, you are in charge of project security.”  
  
Jack opened his mouth, but Hammond silenced him with a bleak look and continued. “It’s light duty. That’s on purpose. You will use your spare time to recuperate and to make up your mind. Do you really want this damned courts martial? Or are you willing to accept retirement on a medical discharge? Make sure you have it clear before you come back here. The next time we discuss it will be the last. I want this settled. I’ve got no more energy or political capital to expend on protecting you from yourself.”  
  
Jack blinked, stood and squared his shoulders, saying, “Yes, General. Thank you.”  
  
When Hammond sat silently staring up at him for a moment, Jack continued. “Is there something else, General?”  
  
Hammond nodded and said, “Yes, one other thing. The President has granted my request for a posthumous promotion. I asked for it after you were declared legally dead, while the Yult had you. Then, you reappeared like Lazarus and all the rest happened. Frankly, I forgot about it. The paperwork went through channels and arrived back on my desk this morning. Your promotion has been approved.”  
  
Hammond stood and stuck out his hand solemnly, “Congratulations, Brigadier General O’Neill. Now, get the hell out of my office.”  
  
Jack shook hands, accepted the small box of stars and was in the hall before he managed to say, “Thank you, General Hammond.”  
  
Long Gone  
  
Fifteen hours later, Jack O’Neill climbed out of a government sedan. His heart was tripping like a school kid at his first dance. This was the day.  
  
He squinted into a setting sun, gazing down at the beach, trying to get a fix on his team, among the knots of people scattered along the water’s edge. He lifted his bag, winced and switched the bag to his right hand. Then, he rummaged around in his pockets for his shades.  
  
“Damn,” he muttered as his wrist protested again. Jack finally got his polarized sunglasses on and immediately found Teal’c. Daniel was beside him, but no Sam.  
  
Jack sighed and dropped his bag. He stuck his hand into his trouser pocket and fingered the ring. For years he’d denied his feelings, hid his obsession. He’d ignored how much he needed to see Sam Carter to make his day go right.  
  
He was finally free, but dammit, Sam wasn’t on the beach. The only blonde in sight had a well-built redhead wrapped around her. Jack was staring past the couple when the blonde suddenly waived and called to him.  
  
“Down here, Colonel!” she called, unwinding herself from the redhead. It was Sam.  
  
“Crap,” Jack muttered. His heart clenched. He was striding down the dunes, before he could stop himself.  
  
Daniel turned and smiled, “Jack! What are you doing here? How are you feeling? Want to go get some dinner with us? We’re all going.”  
  
Jack smiled his ‘nice-to-see-you-too-now-get-out-of-my-face’ smile.  
  
“Sorry to break up the party,” he replied, “I need to talk to Carter.”  
  
He glanced at the man beside her, taking his measure.  
  
‘About fifteen years younger than me, fit. Not bad looking, if you like chiseled features.’  
  
Carter bent and pulled on jeans. Her back was bare down to the small of her waist. Water droplets sparkled on her brown skin. Her hair had lightened, bleached almost white by three weeks of tropical sun. It was damp. Blond curls made fascinating patterns around her ears and the nape of her neck. Suddenly, Jack realized Sam was smiling up at him.  
  
“Colonel?” she said.  
  
“Yeah, Carter,” Jack snapped out of it.  
  
“Did you want to talk to me?” she asked, apparently again.  
  
Jack replied, “Yeah, I do. But it’s … sensitive. Let’s go somewhere private.”  
  
Sam turned to her muscular friend and said, “Sorry, Zeek, gotta go.”  
  
Then she turned back with a grin and said, “You won’t believe this place, Colonel. My cabin is right up here.” She led the way.  
  
Jack could feel the redhead’s eyes on his back as he followed. Then Zeek called out, “See you later, Sam.”  
  
Jack’s hopes slipped a notch lower. ‘I let her wait years, too many years,’ he realized. ‘It’s too late.’  
  
Carter pulled out her keys and opened the door to a bright blue beach house almost in the surf. She walked inside, smiled, and said, “Not bad for government work, eh, Colonel?”  
  
“You like it?” Jack asked setting down his bag.  
  
“Like it! It’s great! The people are first-rate scientists from all over the U.S. government. That guy is Zeek Angstrom. He’s a leading expert in theoretical physics and he’s a deep-water salvage expert. We’ve found so much – more than I can finish in a lifetime.”  
  
She finished breathless and smiling. Jack fought the urge to take her in his arms. He just stood there, staring at her like an idiot.  
  
Carter saw him hesitate. She filled in the silence, “Take off your uniform coat, Sir. It’s too hot for wool.”  
  
“Right,” he said but just stood there, trying not to look as worn and sore as he felt. He’d left Cheyenne Mountain believing it was possible to walk in, tell her he was retiring and ask her to be his wife. Now, with Sam staring at him like she thought he might be seriously ill, he couldn’t find the words.  
  
“Sir, are you alright?” Carter said when he didn’t move.  
  
“Fine, Carter, just very tired,” Jack answered. He pulled off the jacket and tried not to wince.  
  
“Your wrist still giving you problems?” she asked. She stepped close to help him pull his hand through the sleeve. Jack smelled the sea in her hair.  
  
“What do you need to talk about, Colonel?” she asked again as she turned away to hang his jacket over the back of a chair. He turned away, too, to stop from reaching for her.  
  
“Your next assignment, Carter,” Jack answered.  
  
“What? I’ve barely got started,” she blurted. “Colonel, I could work a lifetime on this technology. It’s only been three weeks. Thanks to you, Sir, we finally have a chance to match Goa’uld technology. But, I still have to figure it out!”  
  
“I know Carter,” Jack hushed her. “I’m not here to order you back into the field. I’m here to tell you that I am having you reassigned to run the Triangle Project. You’ll stay here as long as it takes. I wanted to tell you in person. Congratulations, Major Carter.”  
  
Carter’s face lit up as she realized she could stay with Triangle for as long as she needed.  
  
At her smile, Jack’s heart hit the floor. Part of him, the selfish part, wanted her to argue, to ask to stay with SG-1, to refuse to leave him. A moment passed and her face suddenly went dark. “What about SG-1? You can’t kick me off the team!”  
  
Jack held up his left hand and started to speak. A sound came out, but no words. His throat didn’t want to work. His heart was hammering harder. He coughed and tried again. “I don’t know if there will be a team, Carter. For the immediate future, it is in limbo. After my wing heals, we’ll see.”  
  
“What if it doesn’t, Sir?” Carter whispered, seeming to already guess the answer.  
  
“Medical discharge, more than likely,” Jack answered struggling to control his voice, “unless I keep pushing for a courts martial.”  
  
“Why would you do that, Sir?” Carter asked. “You don’t want to leave SGC, do you?”  
  
“I screwed up,” Jack barked. Then he clamped his mouth shut and turned away. ‘Dammit! Why am I biting her head off? This is not how I wanted this to go,’ he thought bitterly. He swallowed and locked his fingers on the chair back, forcing the rage back down. ‘Not Carter, too,’ he thought. ‘Don’t take it out on her, too. This is your mess.’  
  
When he spoke the words came out in a whisper. “It might not be up to me. Nothing’s settled yet. For now, I’m reassigned to get your project security in order. So, I’ll be around for a while.”  
  
“How long, Sir?” Carter said.  
  
Jack turned back to look into her eyes. They seemed incredibly blue, as liquid as the ‘Gate’s vortex. Then he bent, picked up his bag and jacket and said, “Night. I’ll see you tomorrow at 0700 hours for breakfast.” As he started through the door, her hand on his back stopped him.  
  
“Sir?” Jack waited, but didn’t trust himself to face her. Her touch was electrifying. His heart hammered wildly. He could barely hear her over its mad pounding.  
  
“You saved my life, Colonel. I want to thank you,” she said.  
  
“That wasn’t me, Carter,” he grunted. “I was flat on my back in the Infirmary. You dreamed it.” Then, before he could stop, he’d turned. He looked into her eyes for a long moment.  
  
Her gaze flicked down to his mouth. God, he wanted her.  
  
“I’m the guy who nearly got you killed,” he said in a low voice. He dropped his gear, bent, cradled her face in his hands and gently kissed her forehead. Then he gave her a long, hard hug, feeling her tremble against his chest.  
  
“I’m grateful that you’re alright, Major,” he said as gently as he could. Then he scooped up his gear and left.  
  
Sam’s voice floated out to him from her porch, “Night, Colonel.”  
  
Carter’s heart was beating crazily from the Colonel’s brief embrace. She knew he’d held her through that long, dangerous night. She knew, somehow, he had saved her. As she watched him cross the grounds, she wanted to follow, to tell him.  
  
Instead, Sam ran her hand back through her hair. ‘Heading for the project office to get his quarters assignment,’ she thought. She let out a shaky sigh, walked to the fridge and grabbed a bottle of beer.  
  
Her stomach growled. She’d been diving all day with Zeek. She was famished. She carried the beer into the shower with her, taking long pulls as she quickly washed her hair. Maybe there was still time to catch a late dinner.  
  
A rap on the door brought her out of the shower. “Just a minute,” she called as she pulled on a robe and wrapped her head in a towel. It was Daniel and Teal’c. “Hey, guys. How was chow?” she asked as her stomach growled again.  
  
“We waited for you and O’Neill,” Teal’c replied.  
  
“How is Jack?” Daniel asked.  
  
“He’s not quite back yet. It’s his wrist. It’s pretty bad I guess,” Carter answered avoiding the unspoken question.  
  
“What about other things?” Daniel pressed.  
  
“Ask him yourself, Daniel,” Sam shot back at him. “You’ll see him at breakfast.”  
  
Daniel nodded and said simply, “I will.”  
  
Dinner was subdued for a change. Zeek hadn’t joined them. Each of them had no energy for small talk. They were thinking of SG-1.  
  
“You don’t suppose they’d retire him?” Daniel asked.  
  
Carter scowled. She’d wanted to let the Colonel decide when and how to tell the others. He’d made it pretty clear that he wanted only her to know by dragging her to her cabin instead of announcing it to the whole team. “Dunno,” she said.  
  
Daniel pressed on with his worries, “But it could happen. Without Jack O’Neill there’d be no SG-1. We’ll each be assigned to a different squad.”  
  
“Unless they assign SG-1 a new commanding officer,” Teal’c rumbled, looking toward Carter for a sign that it might be her.  
  
Carter took a sip of beer and said, “Or to research projects. That wouldn’t be so bad, Daniel, would it?”  
  
“No, but what about Jack?” Daniel asked. “Don’t you think he’d go stir-crazy?”  
  
“I doubt it,” Carter lied. “He managed somehow after his first retirement. Maybe he’d just go fishing.”  
  
“God, what if he just disappears again,” Daniel voiced her own unspoken fears. “He’s done it before, Sam.”  
  
“But he always comes back,” Carter argued, “and he always has a good reason.”  
  
“A good cover story, you mean. Sam, you and I both know he’s never been happier than at the SGC. You don’t know what he was like before. He was … never mind. But trust me. When I first met Jack O’Neill, he made Jonas Hanson look rational. Whoever picked him for the Abydos mission knew it. Jack O’Neill was the perfect man to lead a suicide mission.”  
  
Daniel took a sip of beer, remembering it all again.  
  
“Things are different now,” Sam said. “The Colonel’s got us, Daniel.”  
  
“Jack had people before us. He worked with somebody. Then Charlie died. What do you think happened to those friends?” Daniel came back at her.  
  
“I don’t know,” Carter lied.  
  
“Yes you do, Sam. He pushed them away, and his wife. He did it to punish himself. Now, right after the Yult fiasco, if he’s out, it could destroy him.”  
  
Carter sipped her beer, remembering how the Colonel had barked at her about ‘screwing up.’ Everyone knew he’d been drugged and still managed to get hold of alien technology that could turn the war against the Goa’uld. He’d saved them all again, but he didn’t seem to see it that way.  
  
“Then we can’t let it, Daniel; No matter what.” Carter finished her beer in a long swallow and stood. “I’m tired. I’ll see you in the morning, guys.”  
  
“Good night, Major Carter,” Teal’c said as he watched her walk away. He noted she was walking away from her cabin, not towards it. ‘She’s going to find O’Neill,” he thought, ‘at last.’  
  
  
ΩΩΩ  
  
Doctor Zeek Angstrom sat in the shadows and watched Sam cross the compound. Angstrom frowned. ‘Damn. O’Neill arrived at the worst possible moment.’ Angstrom had been briefed on Major Samantha Carter: a lonesome woman, a woman surrounded by men who were either her intellectual inferiors, off limits or, in the case of he superior officer Colonel Jack O’Neill, both.  
  
Zeek had been circumspect, the ultimate gentleman. First, he engaged Sam in long conversations about their work. He asked about her research and actually listened to the answers. She was starved for conversation and male attention. These chats became a ritual after dinner every evening over the past month. He encouraged her to ramble on late into the evening, always asking for more details, always meeting her eyes, always smiling and nodding and prompting her to tell him more and more.  
  
Sam had responded to his attentions like a thirsty flower takes water. When he knew she trusted him, he’d moved the relationship toward something more physical. Ten days ago, he’d asked her to demonstrate a variety of self-defense moves. He’d held her close a moment longer than strictly required. She’d trembled slightly then pulled away, laughing. Five days ago, he’d let his hand touch hers and linger. She’d met his gaze and, this time, hadn’t pulled away.  
  
Yesterday, he’d solved a minor problem. She’d hugged him, initiating contact. He knew then that it was almost time. She was comfortable with their friendship, now, comfortable with his touch. This was what he’d been working toward.  
  
Tonight, after dinner he would have moved to the next phase. He would have let slip some deep hurt, knowing full well that she would reach out to help. She’d done it with that nut case, Jonas Hanson. She’d tried to do it with Jack O’Neill.  
  
Zeek had studied her psych profiles. Carter had a mother complex that was long and deep, probably the result of looking after her father, another long-gone warrior-type, ever since her mother’s death when Sam was twelve years old.  
  
Then, out of the blue, there was O’Neill. Zeek had Sam in his arms, horsing around, letting her feel him holding her, getting her thinking about the possibilities of something more, something she needed.  
  
Suddenly, O’Neill stood on the bluff in full dress uniform. The setting sun had painted him bronze and gold. He looked like a statue, tragic, every inch the broken warrior, every inch the hero.  
  
Zeek had felt Sam Carter tense a moment before she raised an arm to wave. At that moment, Zeek knew he’d lost her. Carter would respond, just as her psych reports indicated, but to the wrong man. Sam should have been in his arms tonight. Instead, as she crossed the compound, she was going to find O’Neill.  
  
Zeek sighed. His preferred plan was blown. He’d have to fall back to the other strategy, distasteful as it was to him to destroy a scientist as brilliant and dedicated as Doctor Samantha Carter. Zeek would do whatever he had to do. Nothing, no one, could stand in his way.  
  
  
ΩΩΩ  
  
Jack had showered and shaved. He was in the hammock on his tiny back patio wearing just a pair of ragged cut offs. He wanted a beer, desperately. But he knew the Team would be at the only bar on the post.  
  
He couldn’t face them, not like this.  
  
‘I’ll just blow up again. I did it with Fraiser and Hammond … and Sara. It’s happening again. People could have died – my people – Teal’c – Sam. She could be dead now because of me. I was obsessed with Kennedy. What was I thinking?’ he ruthlessly probed for an answer, damning himself for that sense of utter devotion he’d felt for the Yult.  
  
Jack closed his eyes, but M walked towards him in his memory. ‘God, I wanted her. I chucked it all for … a Goa’uld.’ He saw Kennedy’s eyes again, heard his words. ‘We choose to do these things, not because they’re easy but because they are hard.’  
  
Jack felt hot tears on his cheeks. There was one honorable way out. He had to face this. ‘I’ll call Hammond tonight. I’ll tell him to recall me and convene that damned courts martial. There’s nothing else to do. I can’t face Sam. It’s too late. Anyway, I’d just screw up her life, too. Iraq was first. My family was second. Now this.’  
  
Someone knocked on his door. He almost didn’t answer. There was another knock. He wiped his eyes on the heel of his hand. He was too tired to move. Figuring it was a bean counter with a paperwork problem, Jack hollered, “Come in” and didn’t move from his hammock.  
  
He heard the door open. He called out again, “Back here, on the patio.”  
  
When Sam appeared, Jack almost bolted. There was nowhere to go. Unable to make a smooth exit for a shirt, he made a joke of it. “Well, now you’re dressed and I’m half naked. You’d think, Carter, that just once today we’d get it right.”  
  
“You mean both of us fully dressed?” she played along.  
  
“Or … the other option,” he said softly.  
  
Even as he said it, Carter knew she would stay. She needed to get this just right. Carter leaned against the porch railing and said, “Colonel. Can we talk? Sir, I don’t want to be re-assigned.”  
  
Jack’s eyes widened, but he said, “I’d be sorry to hear that, if I believed it. I saw you out there today, Sam. I’m looking at you now. You’ve never looked better. This is where you belong, Major Carter.”  
  
“But, Sir, I don’t want to lose what I have with SG-1,” she drew him out for the tender kill.  
  
“You mean access to that alien technology stuff? Don’t be a fool, Carter. You’ll still have it. You’re on your way up, not out.” Jack swung his long legs over the hammock and extricated himself like an expert. He stood gripping the porch railing, glaring out at the dunes.  
  
“I don’t mean access to technology, Sir,” Carter said. He turned to face her, puzzled. “I mean access to you.”  
  
Carter smiled at the impact of her words. His jaw actually dropped and his angry brown eyes grew wide. He didn’t speak. He seemed far away for a long moment. Carter held her breath, praying.  
  
“You mean that, Major?” he asked softly.  
  
“With all my heart, Colonel; I won’t leave SG-1 if it means leaving you.” She was almost crying with the joy of finally saying it out loud.  
  
“You won’t be leaving me, Sam,” Jack whispered. “I’m coming with you.”  
  
Then, to her shock, he pulled a silver ring out of his shorts pocket, and gripped both her shoulders. He looked into her eyes and said, “Samantha Carter, I’m in love you. I’ve loved you for six years. I’ve been a damned fool to wait. I can’t wait another moment. Marry me. Please.”  
  
She looked into his earnest eyes and said, “Yes.” At that he slipped the band of silver over her ring finger. Then without a word he lifted her and carried her over the threshold of his little shack.  
  
For all his ardor, Jack O’Neill was a gentle and considerate lover. The combination was the most intense night of lovemaking Samantha Carter had ever known.  
  
Jack placed her on his bed and gently kissed her. It was like being worshipped. His lips traced her cheek and neck. His hands touched her hair, shoulders and then caressed her breasts.  
  
She moaned and began to help, eager for him, but he said in a voice husky with emotion, “I’d like to do it, please.” She smiled and let him have his way.  
  
It was wildly exciting to feel his fingers progress down her shirt buttons. When the last button was undone, he opened her blouse and looked at her for a long moment. His eyes adored her. Then he slid a hand behind her back and loosened her bra. As Sam felt it come free, she felt a wild surge of joy. ‘At last,’ her mind sung.  
  
Then his strong, tender hands slipped off her shirt and moved up to cup her breasts. She cried out, feeling his thumbs brush her nipples. He bent his mouth to her and savored each breast, sending electric thrills from her heart to her toes.  
  
When he lifted his eyes, Jack O’Neill had dropped his defenses. It was all in his hungry, serious eyes, before he bent to kiss her mouth again. Sam parted her lips slightly, inviting more and felt an animal response.  
  
Jack forced her lips apart. His breath was coming in short gasps. She felt how urgently he wanted her. He pulled away for a moment, undisguised lust in his eyes.  
  
He unzipped her jeans and jerked them off with a quick tug. Then he turned away and bent to kiss her belly. His fingers traced inside the waistband of her panties. She felt her body respond. She lifted against his fingers and was rewarded. He slipped them deeper and tentatively brushed across her. She gasped and rose against his hand, but he pressed her hips back against the bed.  
  
Then he kissed the inside of her knee. Sam was wild, but he was strong and held her as he continued his maddening explorations.  
  
She prayed he would continue and then felt him slide her panties down her hips. She struggled to free herself from the panties, but he wickedly tightened them around her ankles and continued to tease with his lips and tongue, controlling her movements expertly. He allowed her just enough freedom to respond, without relinquishing any control of his lovemaking. Jack moved his mouth up her leg, gently kissing and, finally, allowed her to lift up to meet him.  
  
Sam’s breath was coming in short hard gasps when Jack finally tasted her. ‘How long,’ he wondered as he drank in her scent and flavor. ‘How long have I wanted this? Be patient, man. Be slow, be gentle.’ Her strong thighs were taut with wanting him. She was already damp. His own need had built terribly as he explored. It seemed she couldn’t wait another moment, still he took virile pleasure of driving her to higher and stronger response.  
  
‘I have her now,’ he thought, feeling Sam trembling under his hands. He moved his fingers, asking the question. Her whole body answered, demanding more as she cried out and pressed wildly against him. Her rhythm, urgent and joyful, told him this was right. After a moment, he felt her begin to relax, the motion slowed. He pulled away. In the moonlight she was liquid silver, beautiful and she was his at last.  
  
“For the rest of my life,” he murmured and took her in his arms. “Sam, I’ll love you for the rest of my life.’ She gazed back at him, her eyes as blue as the moonlight. “Longer,” he whispered, “forever.”  
  
“I know,” she said softly. Then she continued, ‘Please, Jack. I want you.”  
  
He smiled and stood looking down on her for another moment. Sam watched him bend and strip off his shorts. Tonight he wasn’t the Colonel. As he stood before her, he was just a man. The moon showed every scar on his long lean body, too many scars, too many battles. Tape glowed white on his left wrist.  
  
‘Broken wing,’ she thought, remembering a scrap of something Jonas Hanson had said. Jonas, an old flame with a terminal god-complex, he was nothing like Jack O’Neill, except he lived at the edge. That had been the attraction. Then she got to know Hanson and broke it off.  
  
Still, Sam couldn’t deny her fascination with long gone, hard drivers. Until she met Jack O’Neill, she hadn’t truly understood what that could mean. She’d watched him fight his way back one determined step at a time. She saw the price he’d paid. Now here he stood, dangerously close again, but still within reach. If she pulled him close, she could save him.  
  
Sam lifted her hand. Her fingertips brushed across his abdomen. “Please,” she whispered again. He bent and took her in his arms. There was nothing between them.  
  
He kissed her tenderly. She parted her lips, hungrily demanding more. Her ribs almost cracked at his response. The tenderness was gone. Sam gasped at the sheer physical force of him as he pressed her back and lowered himself over her. “Thank you, Sam,” he whispered into her hair.  
  
It was rough, determined lovemaking. She clenched her teeth and tried not to cry out. Her body responded explosively. Sam was in a firestorm. Through the turmoil, Jack’s eyes burned black.  
  
“Sam, don’t you ever leave me,” he growled, as he buried himself in her. “Not ever. Promise.”  
  
“I’ll never leave,” Sam gasped. “I’ll always love you, Jack, always.”  
  
“Swear it,” he demanded.  
  
“I swear,” she promised.  
  
“Thank god,” he murmured, trembling as he gave himself to her.  
  
 _ **Slippery Slope  
**_  
Across the compound, Zeek Angstrom muttered into the phone, “Yeah. It’s not going to work. I know what I promised. It didn’t turn out. No. Hammond sent O’Neill here. There was no warning at all. No, none.”  
  
Angstrom switched hands and wiped his forehead with his neckerchief, and snarled, “Yeah. O’Neill slipped through our fingers for the time being. So, what? We’ll use the fallback plan. File the papers. Add ‘conduct unbecoming.’ Yeah, that’ll get Carter out of here, too. What? Who cares if it’s true? We only need a few days. Then none of this will matter.”  
  
He hung up the phone and took a long pull from the sweating bottle in his hand. It was warm. He stood, spit it into the sink and tipped the rest down the drain. It was too damned hot inside the bungalow. He grabbed a fresh beer and stepped out onto the cool breeze on the patio.  
  
‘Nobody can stand in our way,’ he thought, as if he could convince himself that Sam Carter didn’t matter. He could still feel her against his chest, touching his skin, but she’d made a fatal error. Now she had to be eliminated.  
  
The plan was simple. His family had patiently waited and worked for centuries for this moment. Now it was falling into place.  
  
The Goa’uld were coming, communicating with his family through a device unwittingly supplied by friends within the NID.  
  
‘Fools,’ Angstrom thought.  
  
All the Goa’uld asked was O’Neill’s public humiliation and death as proof of his family’s goodwill. ‘All I need to do is destroy O’Neill. The man had made that ridiculously easy. The only hitch was that he would take Samantha Carter down with him. Too bad,’ Zeek thought as he took a long, satisfying pull of cool beer. ‘Too bad, but maybe she’ll see reason after the invasion.’  
  
  
ΩΩΩ  
  
Breakfast came far too early. Sam woke at dawn. While Jack slept, she watched sunrise color his body amber, then red and gold. After awhile she closed her eyes and listened to him breathe.  
  
She knew his night sounds from years of field missions. But this morning there were no muttered curses, no grinding teeth. He was still, except for the rise and fall of his chest.  
  
When she felt him stir, Sam feigned sleep. She felt his eyes on her. The thought of his gaze on her body made her ache for him. The ends of her mouth lifted at the possibilities and he knew then she was awake.  
  
“Faking,” he accused gleefully. Then he slipped an arm around her and asked tenderly, “You okay?”  
  
“Wonderful,” she purred smiling, “more, please.”  
  
Jack gathered her into her arms and murmured, “Thank you.” She smiled. Gratitude was an unexpected aspect of Jack O’Neill as a lover.  
  
“You’re welcome,” she whispered kissing his eyelid.  
  
He sighed deeply. His hands wandered down her sides. “What time is it?”  
  
“Still early, 0630,” she smiled. They had all the time they needed now. They had forever.  
  
At that moment, someone knocked on the door.  
  
“Jack?” Daniel’s voice came through the door. “You up? I wanted to talk to you.”  
  
Sam buried her face in a pillow to muffle her laughter. The look of profound disappointment on Jack’s face was priceless as he barked. “I’m definitely up, Danny. But this is not a good time. I’ll see you at breakfast.”  
  
“What’s wrong?” Daniel persisted, clearly worried. “You okay?”  
  
Jack looked at Sam. She nodded, “I’m not alone, Daniel,” he hollered. “See you later.”  
  
The silence through the door was deafening as Daniel understood the implications of Jack’s answer.  
  
Sam heard him mumble, “Oh, sorry.” Then there was the sound of him walking away. Jack reached for her, but Sam rolled away.  
  
“Just enough time for a shower, if I hurry. I’ll see you at breakfast, Colonel.”  
  
“I’m not hungry. I’m skipping breakfast,” he caught her and pulled her back onto the bed. His stomach growled loudly and she laughed, “Yes you are. There’s always tonight, Jack.”  
  
“I can’t wait,” he leered, fondling her.  
  
Sam squealed, “I’m hungry.”  
  
Jack sat up, blinked and said. “Well, why didn’t you say so? I’m famished!” He stood, stretched and pulled a set of rumpled fatigues from his luggage. He grinned at her. “What are you doing for lunch?”  
  
Sam smiled, pulled on her jeans, and said, “I’ve got to scoot, or I’ll miss breakfast. Save me a piece of fruit.” Then she slipped into her shirt and stuffed her bra in her pocket.  
  
Jack grabbed her and gave her a deep kiss. She wanted to stay, but duty called. She bolted from the cabin and sprinted for her quarters, hoping no one had seen her leave her former CO’s cabin.  
  
By the time Sam reached the chow hut, Jack was already seated with Teal’c and Daniel. She walked up and slid onto the bench with her coffee and a bowl of fruit. “Morning,” she said.  
  
Daniel and Teal’c exchanged a look and then turned back to her.  
  
“What!” she demanded, glancing at Jack.  
  
Daniel grinned sheepishly and said, “Ah, Sam. What happened to your neck?”  
  
Teal’c stated solemnly, “I believe it was a squid, Daniel Jackson.”  
  
“What,” she demanded again and then got it. Her hand flew to her neck. She glared at Jack. Then realized he had his own series of pale nibble marks on his neck. ‘Crap!’ she thought and started to stammer nonsense.  
  
Suddenly Daniel was laughing.  
  
Teal’c smiled, “Congratulations and good luck, Major Carter. O’Neill has already explained.”  
  
“Jack had to tell us,” Daniel exclaimed. “He hasn’t been here long enough for … squid attacks!”  
  
Sam frowned at Jack, but saw his red blush. He’d endured the same friendly razzing, probably moments before she arrived. Besides the constellation of marks on his neck had given them both away. It was her own doing.  
  
“Thanks Daniel, Teal’c,” Sam grinned. “We are very happy.” She glanced at Jack and saw a boyish grin behind his raised coffee cup.  
  
“It is about time,” Teal’c observed majestically and took a bite of his cantaloupe. Sam scooted across the bench to be closer to Jack and ate breakfast like she’d never seen food before. They chatted at first. Jack wasn’t in the mood for serious discussion. Sam understood why, fighting the urge to place her hand on his thigh.  
  
After a couple cups of coffee the Colonel began the briefing. “So. Here’s the deal. For the time being, I’m assigned here. I’ll be going over security measures for the project and beefing them up. Teal’c I could use your help.”  
  
Teal’c bowed his head silently. O’Neill continued, “Danny, if I know you, you already have more rocks and busted stuff than you can look at in a lifetime.”  
  
Daniel frowned and said, “Yes, and they’re called artifacts, Jack.”  
  
“Like I said,” O’Neill grinned, “more than you can ever look at, right?” Then he tensed and continued, “I wanted Sam here before I told you the rest. She’s been assigned here more or less permanently. From what she’s told me, this Yult technology is the break through weaponry we need to finally match the Goa’uld, but she needs time to work it all out. The Air Force is giving it to her.”  
  
O’Neill looked at the somber faces of his team. ‘Yeah, this is good-bye,’ he thought. Then he smiled and said, “My question for you two is what do you want to do?”  
  
“What do you mean exactly, Jack?” Daniel asked.  
  
“I can get you pretty much any assignment you want,” O’Neill said gazing at a speck of something in his coffee cup. “Just name it.”  
  
“But I thought you were in trouble, being courts martialed,” Daniel persisted. “How can you help us get plum assignments?”  
  
“It’s a tradition in the military, Daniel,” O’Neill replied patiently. “A CO is usually given his option as to what happens next for the people under his command. It’s sort of in the nature of a last request.”  
  
Daniel paled. “Before they shoot you?” he gasped.  
  
“Before I retire,” O’Neill snorted, shaking his head. “Hammond is giving me the option to retire. He’s using my wrist as a medical reason to get me quietly gone.”  
  
“After all you’ve done?” Daniel continued, aghast. “Of all the ungrateful …”  
  
“Daniel,” O’Neill cut him off sharply, “they could have me shot. I demanded that they courts martial me. Hammond and Doctor Fraiser came up with this instead. It’s a minor miracle. They are giving me a break. Yesterday, I didn’t want it,” O’Neill fixed Sam with his gaze and finished. “Now, I do.”  
  
After a moment of silence, Teal’c rumbled, “O’Neill, I would prefer to continue my battle against False Gods.”  
  
Jack nodded. “Okay. You want to stay on here with Carter’s project or shall I tell General Hammond you’d like to lead your own SG team?”  
  
Teal’c considered and then said, “I believe I can be of greatest service in battle.” He turned to Carter and said, “You understand my choice, Major Carter?”  
  
Sam smiled and gripped his forearm. “Sure, Teal’c. You’re a warrior; of course you want to fight. I understand.” Her smiled dimmed slightly as a flash of sorrow clouded Jack’s face. They both covered their misgivings with professional masks.  
  
O’Neill continued, “How about you Danny-boy? Anything in particular you want?”  
  
“I’d like to work here with Sam for a while longer and then join Teal’c’s team, if that’s possible.”  
  
Jack nodded. “Sure, I’ll see to it.” Then he turned to Carter and said a bit too brightly, “What’s on for today, Major?”  
  
“Well, sir, we’ve been working on recovering portions of the Yult ship. I’d hoped we could use it as an underwater research lab, but it’s very deep. It is sinking deeper into the Earth’s crust every day.”  
  
“It has an outside skin that literally digests any matter it encounters. So, I had the geology team characterize the local environment. It is very close to breaking through into a hotspot in the Earth’s molten core. There’s magma within a half mile of the ship, Sir. At the rate it’s sinking, it will break through within two years, if all conditions remain as projected.”  
  
O’Neill smiled through her lecture, remembering how those lips had tasted. How they had felt on his skin. He snuck a look at his watch. ‘Damn only 7:30,’ he thought wishing noon would come soon so he could whisk her away for a few minutes together. Somehow this morning, geology and theoretical physics were fascinating.  
  
When her lips stopped moving, he stood and stretched. “That’s fine, Major. It’s your baby. As for me, I’d appreciate your providing a list of staff and their preliminary security data files. Also, please send over a complete inventory of all equipment, hazardous materials you brought down here and all potentially hazardous items you’ve recovered. I’d like them by noon.” O’Neill swung his gaze to Daniel, “That includes your rocks and stuff, Daniel. Okay?”  
  
Sam answered, “Yes, Colonel, by noon.”  
  
Daniel nodded.  
  
Jack rubbed his hands together briskly, “Okay, then. I can get to work after lunch. In the meantime, keep out of trouble kids. I’m going to hit the rack.” He winked at Carter and concluded, “old guys need plenty of rest.”  
  
Daniel watched Carter blush deeply. She watched Jack stride across the compound. Her eyes danced.  
  
Daniel felt a sharp, uncharitable pang of envy. He remembered how Sha’Re used to look at him exactly like that – a mixture of joy, love and pure animal appetite. When she finally stopped gazing after Jack, Daniel asked, “When’s the wedding?”  
  
“Huh? Oh, I dunno,” Sam stammered. “We haven’t exactly made plans.” She blushed crimson. “There hasn’t been much time to talk.”  
  
Teal’c smiled and said, “You are honored warriors. It should be a military wedding. I will assist with the plans.”  
  
Daniel grinned and gave Sam’s hand a reassuring squeeze as her eyes widened with alarm. “Me too, but they might want to elope, Teal’c.”  
  
Sam smiled a thank you and stood. “Okay. I’ll let you know what we decide. In the meantime, I’ve got a project to run!”  
  
Daniel and Teal’c laughed as she fled across the compound to her lab. Then Teal’c rose and said, “I will join you at the lab after kelnorim.”  
  
Daniel smiled and said, “Right.” As he watched Teal’c walk away, Daniel remembered what Gorlagon had said, ‘Someday I’ll be gone … tell her not to wait.’  
  
His smile faded. ‘I’ve got to talk to General Hammond,’ he realized. Then he went to his cabin to make a phone call.  
  
 _ **Within Reach  
**_  
Jack whistled under his breath as he walked back to his bungalow. The sun was shining. The waves were thundering. He’d nap until lunchtime, then go bug Carter to take an hour off with him. Afterwards, he’d tackle security for the Triangle Project.  
  
He flopped on his cot and closed his eyes. It was a beautiful day in paradise. Fascinating sounds floated in through the window: People greeting, laughter, a jeep engine turning over, a bell and the pounding of the waves. It sounded too good to miss.  
  
Jack opened his eyes. He wasn’t going to sleep. Not here, not today, not after last night. He had too much to look forward to and too much to finish before he retired. He swung his legs over the edge of the cot, stood, stripped and found his trunks. He’d have a swim and then get to work winding up everything for Hammond.  
  
It was the first day of the rest of his life, a life he’d ached for, but didn’t deserve. He couldn’t deserve it. ‘Nobody deserves to be this blessed,’ he thought as he walked into the surf. ‘It just happens and all you can do it grab it and be grateful.’  
  
When he finally emerged from the water, he let himself drip dry in the hot sun. He walked back to the bungalow, still whistling tunelessly. He hoped Carter had sent the files over earlier than promised. It was her usual approach to overestimate how much time a project would actually take. He suspected it was a way to keep him off her back. ‘No chance of that, Major,” he thought gleefully. ‘I’m going to be bugging you for stuff for the rest of our lives.’  
  
He showered and changed into fatigues. As he tried to deal with his unruly cowlicks, he toyed with the idea that he was grossly out of uniform. But he was ranking officer on-site, either way. Besides, it was Hammond’s fault. He’d sent him away like he had the plague. There’d been no time for a stop at the PX, not after he’d stopped at the jewelers.  
  
Now, hundreds of miles from the nearest official military base, the cause was more or less hopeless. Jack picked up the little black box with his shiny new stars. He slipped it into his pocket, just in case he needed them, and headed to his new office. He was ready to tackle the last assignment he’d ever have to complete for the Air Force, ready to get out at last.  
  
He smiled all the way, contemplating how noon was approaching. It would be fun to bother Sam for the next few days, or weeks, however long he had until he was ousted.  
  
Then the real fun would start. He’d pry her loose for a honeymoon, someplace neither of them had ever visited. Someplace romantic. ‘Maybe a fishing trip,’ he thought grinning at the irony of whisking her away to yet another tent. ‘But,’ he smiled, ‘a tent where we can finally make love in the mornings.’  
  
He walked into his office in a rusted Quonset hut, snapped a salute to the startled enlisted personnel and went directly into his office. He signaled for the closest airman, a young corporal, to follow him. He asked her to bring him his mail, any files from Major Carter and to close the door behind her. She complied with admirable silence and left him alone to get started.  
  
As expected, Carter had met her deadline hours earlier than she’d projected. Jack opened the first of the alphabetically stacked files. It was for ‘Angstrom, E.’ A small color photograph verified that ‘E. Angstrom’ was the same man he’d seen on the beach mauling Sam.  
  
O’Neill took an instant dislike to the handsome face. Then he scanned the paperwork on Ezekiel Angstrom, native of Den Helden, Netherlands. The man was well-educated, successful, had been decorated for valor in the Balkans as a peacekeeper and had a net worth far exceeding O’Neill’s. The paperwork verified that Zeek was exactly 15 years younger and forty pounds heavier than Jack, all muscle from the look of him.  
  
‘So what did she see in this bum?’ Jack wondered, shaking his head. ‘Too perfect, far too perfect.’  
  
All the boxes for the preliminary security check showed Angstrom met the requirements of honest, faithful and true, despite the fact he was born abroad. His parents had immigrated and Zeek had gained U.S. citizenship in his late teens, but the basics weren’t what O’Neill was going to study. Any infiltrator worth his salt, or hers, would meet every standard measure of trustworthiness on paper.  
  
The trick was to spot inconsistencies. One, for example, is when a person is just too good to be true. Angstrom seemed to fit that category. He had never even had a traffic ticket. His bank account was another concern, far too healthy. It was explained by the fact that he’d founded a successful deep-ocean salvage business, having learned the craft by working summers between semesters with his Uncle in the North Atlantic.  
  
It wasn’t impossible. The man held advanced degrees in physics and engineering, as well as additional studies in hydromechanics. Still … O’Neill’s gut said Ezekiel Angstrom, Ph.D., was worth a long, hard look.  
  
Besides, he couldn’t shake the vision of Sam with this Zeek-creep draped over her. ‘What the hell was she doing?’ he wondered for the first time. ‘When I saw them, she just waved. She didn’t even move away from him. It was like … she didn’t care if I saw her like that.’ Jack felt jealousy niggling. It was the same nasty feeling he’d had around Martouf, and that joker from the Tolan. And the guy that he knew was lurking in her apartment the time he’d shown up unexpectedly with pizza, the one who’d ‘ascended.’ ‘Yeah, Zeek is going to get triple checked,’ he decided, grinning wickedly. ‘He’s too good to be true.’  
  
ΩΩΩ  
  
George Hammond stepped into his office and fumbled for the light switch. He had a cup of his favorite coffee in one hand and the morning paper tucked under his arm. He was really looking forward to thirty uninterrupted minutes of peace and quiet. It actually seemed possible. Things had quieted down considerably since he’d banished O’Neill to Bermuda. ‘Amazing how everything slows down when Jack’s off the base,’ the General thought as he took a long satisfied swig of coffee. ‘Gorlagon gave me a good piece of advice there.’ George opened his newspaper. Before he reached the third line of the lead article, someone knocked on his door.  
  
“Come,” he replied reluctantly.  
  
“General,” the airman said as he stepped through the door. “I thought you’d want to see this immediately. It looks like we’ve just been served with legal papers.”  
  
Hammond accepted the thick brown envelop. His heart was racing. He’d tried everything, spent every free moment since the incident, to avoid this. He’d called in chits with everyone he knew, trying to untangle Jack O’Neill from the mess he’d made of his career.  
  
Now Hammond understood why he’d failed. Days ago, O’Neill’s enemies had already smelled blood.  
  
Hammond stared at the fat brown envelope, his hopes in ashes. ‘I’m too late,’ he thought bitterly. ‘Too damned late.” Then he ripped open the envelope and started reading, his morning newspaper forgotten.  
  
The first page read, ‘A general court-martial of Brigadier General Jonathan O’Neill will convene not earlier than 10-days nor longer than 60-days to bring charges of treason, dereliction of duty, conduct unbecoming an officer, espionage, aiding the enemy and the following thirty- five counts of violations of the National Security Act, 5 USC 3715 et seq.”  
  
Hammond skimmed the legal boilerplate language until he found the detailed charges: treason, dereliction of duty, espionage. Here and there the phrasing seemed to have been lifted out of Jack's official report of his encounter with the Yult. That gave Hammond heartburn. Only two people had legitimate access to that report, Jack O’Neill and himself.  
  
The last pages were photocopies of the laws O’Neill was alleged to have violated. Hammond’s blood ran cold as he found the possible sentences O’Neill faced:  
  
‘Aiding the enemy … death or such other punishment as a court-martial or military commission may direct;  
  
Espionage … A sentence of death may be adjudged by a court-martial;  
  
Conduct unbecoming an officer and a gentleman … such punishment as the court-martial may direct.’  
  
Hammond’s coffee was stone cold by the time he took another sip. He drained the cold brew right down to the dregs. It was bitter and repulsive, but it washed a far worse taste from his mouth.  
  
As Hammond set down the cup, his phone rang. “Hammond here,” he answered.  
  
“General?” Daniel asked. “I’m calling about Jack.”  
  
“Already?” Hammond asked, surprised at the speed they were acting.  
  
“What?”  
  
Daniel sounded confused, so Hammond snapped, “You called me, Doctor Jackson. Why?”  
  
“Um, I’m concerned about Jack. General, did Gorlagon tell you anything about his future?” Daniel asked.  
  
“About Gorlagon’s future?” Hammond asked.  
  
“No, ah, about Jack’s future, General,” Daniel said.  
  
“No, Doctor. Just the opposite. He wouldn’t tell me a thing. He just said I could shoot him, but he wouldn’t risk the future where it all works out,” Hammond sighed, remembering the unwavering old man.  
  
“Well, General, he asked me to say good-bye to Sam,” Daniel explained.  
  
“That’s natural enough. She was his teammate, his 2IC. He cares about her,” Hammond said out of habit. But as Daniel continued, the General remembered the rest of the conversation.  
  
“He told me he’ll disappear sometime, on a mission years from now,” Daniel said. “He wanted Sam to know that it wasn’t his choice to go. He doesn’t want to leave her, General Hammond.”  
  
“Years from now,” Hammond said slowly.  
  
“Yes, General,” Daniel replied. “I think he was misleading me General. I think it’s all happening now.”  
  
Hammond sighed heavily, “So do I Doctor Jackson. O’Neill’s been promoted to Brigadier General.”  
  
“That was Gorlagon’s rank,” Daniel blurted out. “And now Sam and Jack are … together.”  
  
“Grandkids,” Hammond muttered. “That’s what he meant about my granddaughters.”  
  
“What?” Daniel asked. “I missed that part.”  
  
“Did you say they’re together?” Hammond asked sidestepping Daniel’s question.  
  
“They’re getting married, General. Jack told us this morning.” Daniel explained and then blurted, “So you can’t send Jack on any more missions. It’s too dangerous.”  
  
“I see. As for missions, Doctor Jackson, that seems highly unlikely,” Hammond said.  
  
“Because he’s retiring?” Daniel asked. “He’s done it before.  
  
“Not because he’s retiring, Son. I’ve just been notified that General O’Neill’s being courts martialed. If Jack and Sam still want to get married, tell them to do it now. Tell him they are coming for him. Tell him I’ll do all I can for him and tell him … tell them both congratulations,” Hammond said.  
  
“Yes General Hammond,” Daniel said. “I’ll tell them now.”  
  
“Do that Doctor,” Hammond said. Then he hung up the phone and whispered, “Dammit.”  
  
  
ΩΩΩ  
  
As 9:30 approached, Jack gathered the files together and locked them in his desk drawer. He was still too early, but he couldn’t wait another minute. He left the hut, snapping a salute to his security staff. He’d take time to get to know them later.  
  
Sam’s lab was at the opposite end of the compound. He covered the distance quickly. Then silently eased himself into the hut. It was empty aside from a long workbench, a high intensity lamp, a couch in the dark recesses of the hut and a fifteen foot aqua blue column, humming ominously at the far end of the bench.  
  
And of course there was Sam. Jack stood still and watched her work. She was concentrating on something, gazing at it through a huge magnifying lens. Every so often she jotted notes and then would move to the other end of the bench and peer into a binocular microscope.  
  
‘How she doesn’t wreck her posture, I can’t understand,’ Jack thought as he watched her stoop, motionless for a full fifteen minutes at a time.  
  
After a while, he eased himself out of the shadows and closed the distance to her. Finally, he placed a hand on her shoulder, ever so gently to avoid startling her.  
  
She jumped, smiled and declared, “Colonel, I didn’t hear you come in, Sir!”  
  
“You were concentrating, Major,” he smiled back.  
  
She shrugged and said, “Yeah, sorry.”  
  
“Don’t give it another thought,” he answered with a guilty twinge. He’d taken pains to watch her unobserved, after all. “How’s it going?” he changed the subject.  
  
“Fine,” she answered, grinning like a kid. “Next, I’ll tie the power skin into something that draws down a lot more power. Then I can see how far I can crank up the BQs.”  
  
Jack winced at the thought. Sam noticed and hurried to reassure him. “There should be minimal risk of explosion, as long as I keep draining off power.”  
  
That didn’t really help.  
  
“Sweet. Try not to blow yourself up before lunch,” Jack suggested. He glanced at the aqua blue towers again. For no reason Jack could put into words they made his skin crawl.  
  
“So,” Carter spoke as she tightened a bolt. “Did you get my files and lists, Sir?”  
  
“Yeah, thanks,” Jack answered dragging his eyes away from the BQs. “You got them over early. I actually got started.”  
  
“Any spies?” Sam chided.  
  
Jack was about to mention his misgivings about Zeek Angstrom, but she continued, “Was there something else you needed, Sir?”  
  
Jack recognized it as her subtle hint that she was busy and he was just hanging around breaking her concentration. But he didn’t care. Rather than answer, he simply turned on his heel and walked away.  
  
He felt Sam’s eyes on his back. She probably thought he was pissed. He smiled as he reached up and flicked off the lab lights. A soft blue glow was the only light. ‘Like moonlight,’ Jack thought as he locked the door. Then he crossed the room to stand in front of Sam.  
  
“It’s lunchtime, Major,” he announced as he slipped his hands inside her waistband and pulled her against him. “I can’t wait for noon.”  
  
To his delight, she stood on tiptoe and nibbled his neck, whispering, “I thought you’d never show up.”  
  
  
ΩΩΩ  
  
Daniel missed Jack by moments. His staff didn’t know where he’d gone. Daniel had an idea. After this morning, he was reluctant to show up at Sam’s lab.  
  
Instead, he walked to Jack’s cabin, but O’Neill wasn’t there. Daniel walked to the lab. The lights were off. Daniel tried the door. It was locked. He listened for a moment, heard Sam giggle, blushed and turned away. He’d find Jack later, or he’d talk to Sam. Now clearly was not the time.  
  
  
ΩΩΩ  
  
Jack slipped his hands down Sam’s back, under her, and lifted her up on the bench. He was about to fulfill one of his earliest fantasies, seducing Doctor Samantha Carter on her cluttered lab bench.  
  
Jack kissed her and eased her back onto it’s surface. He pushed her notebooks aside. She managed to catch the large magnifying lens before it toppled over.  
  
“Don’t go anywhere with that,” he murmured. “I might need it.”  
  
Sam grinned and lifted her hips. “Ouch,” she said as she pulled a three-inch hexagonal bolt and nut from under her.  
  
Jack kissed her again. “I have a confession to make,” he whispered.  
  
“Oh?” Sam asked, distracted by his hands moving up her sides.  
  
“All those times when I shut you down. All those times when you wanted to explain physics to me…” Jack continued.  
  
“Yeah,” Sam breathed as he kissed her neck.  
  
“There was a reason. A good reason,” Jack whispered into her hair. “But it’s … pretty personal.”  
  
“Oh?” Sam was paying attention now.  
  
“It’s just that,” Jack paused as he kissed her, “Smart women …” He nuzzled her and his hands strayed under her shirt. “Are a real …” He unbuttoned her fatigues. “Turn on…” he slipped her uniform top off and lifted his eyes, “for me. Sam, you were making me crazy … usually when I really needed to concentrate.”  
  
Sam grinned and said, “Oh!”  
  
Jack continued, “So, I was wondering if you’d explain Physics to me, Doctor Carter, slowly and in a lot of detail.”  
  
Sam laughed and began, “A body in motion …”  
  
Jack leaned forward and kissed between her breasts, “tends to stay in motion. A body at rest?”  
  
Sam giggled and said, “is no fun at all.”  
  
“Tell me about force magnification,” Jack teased.  
  
Sam frowned and said, “Not necessary, but if you must know, it’s possible to amplify …”  
  
“Amplify, that sounds good Doctor,” Jack grinned exploring her tummy with his mouth and starting to work on her waistband. “How exactly does one amplify force?”  
  
“First, you need magnetism,” Sam giggled as his fingers worked deftly down her buttons.  
  
“Check,” Jack mumbled, his face buried in her belly.  
  
“And you need a power skin,” she laughed at the possibilities.  
  
“Is that down here somewhere,” he smiled, exploring.  
  
“You’ll know it when you find it,” Sam assured him. Then she tensed as he touched her.  
  
“Found it,” he whispered. “Now what?”  
  
“Ah … the power skin must be in contact …” she gasped as he improvised.  
  
“With a power source?” Jack suggested.  
  
“Yes, yes, and …” she stopped talking and moaned as Jack continued.  
  
“Shh, Doctor,” Jack hushed her. “I’m done with theory. It’s time for practical applications.”  
  
He helped her sit up. “I don’t think the lab bench can hold both of us, Sam.”  
  
She grinned and said, “the couch.”  
  
He slipped his arms under her and carried her across the dark room. Forty-five minutes later, he was holding her against his chest, stroking her hair, just enjoying the feel of her. “We need to get married,” he murmured, surprising himself. “I don’t want to wait. I’ve wasted too much time already.”  
  
She squirmed around to look at him and said, “Teal’c wants a military wedding. He feels it is appropriate for warriors.” She smiled at the thought.  
  
“He’ll understand,” Jack stated, kissing her.  
  
“What about my Dad?” Sam asked. “There’s no way to reach him.”  
  
Jack kissed her again and said, “He’d try to talk sense into you. He’d tell you I’m a very bad bet. He’d be right,” Jack said only half-jesting. “Let’s not take that chance.”  
  
“What about the project?” she asked.  
  
“It’ll be here tomorrow,” Jack countered. “So will I, Sam, I swear it. But let’s be hitched by then.”  
  
Sam sat up and buttoned her shirt thoughtfully. Then, she smiled and said, “I’m sure Teal’c would like to give the bride away.”  
  
Jack gave her a lusty kiss and said, “Daniel can be best man. Get ready, Major. Uniform of the day is dress blues. I’ll change and send someone for the Chaplin. You find the bridesmaids. Meet me at the beach behind the kitchen. I’ll be there in thirty minutes or less. He kissed her again and bolted.  
  
Sam sat for another moment in shock. After so many years of wondering if this would ever happen, the day was suddenly here. It was happening now. She grinned, touched the ring already on her finger and knew that in every way that counted, it was already done. She’d been Jack’s for ten hours, thirty-seven minutes. This was just making it official.  
  
She left at a jog, heading for Daniel’s lab to collect her witnesses.  
  
Sam found Teal’c and Daniel where she expected. As she crossed the hut, she saw a look of alarm on Daniel’s face.  
  
“What’s wrong?” she called out as he came close.  
  
Daniel hesitated and then wrapped his arms around her and said, “It’s Jack. There’s something I need to tell you. Something’s going to … happen.”  
  
“What?” Sam demanded, “Why?”  
  
  
ΩΩΩ  
  
Jack saw them coming. As he stepped into the sunshine, three shiny black sedans with government plates pulled into the compound. He’d just finished clipping stars onto his dress uniform and was about to order the first enlisted man he saw to fetch the Chaplin.  
  
But the first enlisted man he saw was an MP, one of several. They climbed out of the ominous black sedans. A giant-sized Major followed. He stood in the tropical sun, scanning the compound for a moment. Then, his gaze fixed on Jack.  
  
O’Neill had nowhere to run. So, he walked towards them.  
  
“Hi, guys,” he called amiably, lifting a hand in greeting. “Looking for someone?”  
  
“Are you Brigadier General Jonathan O’Neill?” the over-large Major said a shade too politely.  
  
“I am,” Jack said, his smile gone.  
  
The Major snapped an obligatory salute along with his entourage. Jack returned it a bit too casually.  
  
The Major pulled an official looking document out of his breast-pocket and read: “General O’Neill, I present you with notice of your indictment on thirty-five violations of the Military Code and the United States Code, including treason, espionage, aiding the enemy and conduct unbecoming an officer.”  
  
“I need you to come with me, Sir,” the Major concluded gravely.  
  
Jack didn’t move, so the Major gave a nod to the MPs. “Take him into custody.”  
  
Jack glared at the MPs and snapped: “Stand down.”  
  
The confused MPs hesitated, so he turned on the officer. “Major, I’m going to walk to the beach to say good-bye to my team.”  
  
Jack saw the man’s eyes narrow slightly. He was expecting a trick, so Jack continued. “It’s not a trick. I won’t make a run for it.” He could see the man considering. “We’re on an island. Where can I go?”  
  
The man still hesitated. Jack suspected he’d heard his reputation.  
  
Jack dropped the “are-there-stars-on-my-uniform-or-not?” routine and tried again. “Look, my future wife is on that beach. She expects to marry me in the next five minutes. She’s less than a hundred yards away. I am going to say good-bye to her. I am going. So, shoot me if you must, Major.”  
  
Then Jack turned and walked resolutely toward the beach. The hair on the back of his neck prickled. It felt like the Major was considering his offer.  
  
Jack had more serious concerns. How was he going to tell Carter? Then, he saw her coming up the beach. She looked somber. She already knew. Teal’c and Daniel flanked her.  
  
Jack closed the distance to Sam, without speaking. Then, he silently wrapped her in his arms. After a long moment, he whispered. “I’m sorry. I’ve got to go.”  
  
Sam pulled away and said. “You can’t leave. Not now.”  
  
Jack nodded and said, “I know. I’ve got no choice.”  
  
Tears threatened as Sam croaked, “Then, I’m coming.”  
  
Jack shook his head, “Negative. That goes for you all. This project is top priority. We don’t know when the Goa’uld will come at us in ships. It could be anytime. You know that, Sam. Triangle is too important for distractions. Stick with it. I'll handle this alone.”  
  
Sam frowned. “We were going on a honeymoon, Jack. What’s the difference?”  
  
Jack smiled bitterly. “A honeymoon is not a courts martial. I have my priorities, Sam.” Then he bent down and kissed her hard to stop the debate. “Gotta go. My ride’s waiting.”  
  
As he turned away he gazed at Teal’c and Daniel and said, “It was an honor serving with you, both.”  
  
Then he walked up the beach to the black sedans.  
  
  
ΩΩΩ  
  
It was a set-up. Hammond sensed it the moment he walked into the tribunal. He took a seat directly behind the defense attorney appointed to O’Neill. Jack was nowhere in sight.  
  
A soft murmur began among those present. Hammond scanned the room for familiar faces. Corporal Ferretti was in the back, looking ill at ease in his crisp dress uniform. Doctor Fraiser was engrossed in conversation with several physicians from the Air Force Hospital, all men and women who’d witnessed first hand the price Jack O’Neill had paid in the service of his country.  
  
Hammond wondered if they were here to testify. He was. The defense attorney had reviewed his testimony. Twice. Hammond felt confident he could set the record straight, if only it was a fair trial. But something in the air told him it was a charade.  
  
After fifteen expectant minutes, a door suddenly opened. The bailiff called those present to attention. A split-second later, the Judge entered, to the scuffling of feet as all present rose. A jury of solemn Air Force officers followed. Hammond stood stiffly as they took their seats. Then all present sat as ordered, except for the bailiff, who remained by the door.  
  
A moment later, guards emerged and escorted Brigadier General O’Neill into the room. Jack was resplendent in dress uniform, sporting his new stars. Incongruously, O’Neill was also sporting a nasty black eye and a fat lip. Hammond frowned, ‘What the hell happened to him?’ O’Neill caught his eye and smiled a silent message of thanks and reassurance. Then he turned his back and took a seat beside his attorney.  
  
Hammond’s worst fears were confirmed. They were going to crucify him. From the look of O’Neill, it had already begun.  
  
The Judge began by charging the jury of seven men and five women to be fair and impartial, to base their decision only on the facts presented into evidence. She cautioned them that, in a capital case, such as this, justice might require them to return a sentence of death. She invited any juror unable to render such a judgment to excuse themselves from the panel. No one moved.  
  
After a long moment, the Judge continued. “Thank you. I am confident you will perform your duty fully and fairly to this Court and to the United States of America.”  
  
Then she reviewed the charges and the elements of each. She explained that all elements of each offense had to be proven beyond a reasonable doubt. She ordered O’Neill to stand while the bailiff read out the thirty-five counts.  
  
Hammond watched O’Neill’s ramrod straight back throughout the long recitation of charges. The man never moved a muscle, until the Judge asked, “How do you plead?”  
  
In a low voice, O’Neill responded, “Not guilty.”  
  
Hammond sighed in relief. Jack had been so committed to this that the General worried he still might throw it all away. ‘But, no,’ Hammond thought. ‘He’s got Carter to think about, now. That changes things.’  
  
Then the prosecutor set forth his case. He called one Pentagon staff officer after another. Each had intimate knowledge of the SGC reports and no connection, no personal knowledge what so ever of Jack O’Neill as a man.  
  
The trial strategy was simple. The prosecutor presented hair-raising tales of daring-do, featuring O’Neill at center stage. Unfortunately the tales were all pulled from O’Neill’s own field reports. The prosecutor asked each witness whether proper military protocol had been observed and whether the strategy was ‘high-risk.’ Not surprisingly, the witnesses stated without exception that O’Neill had made highly dangerous judgments, took impossible risks and frequently ignored protocol. Without exception, each officer stated that, in their opinion as an expert in military strategy and procedure, Jack O’Neill had achieved his unequivocally laudable results through nothing more than sheer luck.  
  
The picture painted of Jack O’Neill was of a renegade officer, hell bent on personal glory, involved in one wild escapade after another. In the process, General Hammond was, by implication, a bumbling old man, well meaning but over-due for retirement and far too old to control this glory-hungry firebrand.  
  
It was simple. It wasn’t true, but even Hammond sometimes felt like O’Neill was completely outside his control, even though he knew it wasn’t true.  
  
Sure, that stunt still rankled when SG-1 went out after two Goa’uld mother ships against Hammond's direct orders. ‘And, thank god they did,’ Hammond thought. ‘They saved the SGC, saved Earth, and in the process saved me from being remembered by History as a greater fool than General George Armstrong Custer.’  
  
As he listened, Hammond knew the theory of the prosecution might be effective. The image of Jack O’Neill, who sat silent and fierce, glaring at the wall, could easily damn the man on his own self-sacrifice, initiative and courage. In black and white, his heroism seemed insane. The twists and slants added by the prosecutor made every heroic event in O’Neill’s career seem damnedably like swaggering bravado.  
  
Hammond knew that it was a matter of emphasis, and a matter of knowing the man, and of being there for the other times, the nights when O’Neill spent long hours waiting for his people to return from a danger-fraught mission; the uncounted meetings when he’d finagled Hammond into allowing him to lead missions that he deemed too dangerous to delegate. The prosecutor had no knowledge of those times, or if he had he wasn’t about to mention them. Neither did the jury. Hammond did. As he listened, he itched to take the stand and tell them all about Jack O’Neill.  
  
The morning wore on. O’Neill sat stiff as a post, never moving. Hammond knew from the set of his jaw that O’Neill’s eyes were probably fixed on that invisible point. The 40-yard glare was burning on high beam. ‘Not a smart move when your enemies are painting you as a psycho,’ Hammond mused, ‘but it’s the attorney’s call, and Jack’s.’  
  
At noon, court recessed for an hour. Hammond worked his way through the crowd to Doctor Fraiser.  
  
“What happened to his face?” he demanded as soon as he reached her side.  
  
“I don’t know, General. I’d have told you if anyone had notified me he’d been injured,” she replied.  
  
“Go find out,” Hammond ordered, “and report back to me immediately. O’Neil’s cooperating with these people. I will not have him mistreated.”  
  
Janet pushed her way through the crowd toward the bailiff. She explained to him that, as O’Neill’s personal physician, she wanted to see him. The bailiff disappeared for a few minutes and then returned with permission from the judge. He escorted her behind the door, into the holding area for prisoners.  
  
Janet felt a nervous chill as she followed him down the cold cement-lined corridor. The clang of metal doors echoed occasionally. They were the only sounds, aside from her footsteps and, at one point, rhythmic squeaking of noisy ceiling fan where they turned a corner.  
  
Halfway down another dreary corridor, the guard stopped outside a windowless door. “Here you go, Doctor. I’ll be outside when you’re ready to go, unless you’d like me to accompany you. He’s a tough character from the looks of him,” he offered.  
  
“No. He’s my friend, as well as my patient. I’ll be fine, thank you Sergeant,” Fraiser said as polite as pie. Inside she was quivering with rage.  
  
‘What would you know about tough, you big lump of lard?’ She smiled sweetly as he held the door.  
  
It took a moment for her eyes to adjust in the dim light. The overhead bulb had been disconnected. Light came through a tiny window high overhead. Jack was standing with his back to the door, still in full uniform.  
  
“How are you?” Janet asked his back when he didn’t turn to greet her.  
  
“I’m fine,” Jack answered.  
  
“What happened to your face?” she pressed on, deciding he wouldn’t give up the information voluntarily.  
  
“Slipped in the shower,” he stated. “It happens.”  
  
“The General is concerned. He won’t stand for them mistreating you, Col … General O’Neill,” Janet explained. “That’s why I want to know exactly what happened to you. It could involve something bigger than you or this courts martial, Jack. As much as we all care about you and pray this comes out right. It could be about something bigger, you know.”  
  
That got him, she saw. His stiff back bent slightly, shoulders sagged a notch.  
  
“Take off you coat and shirt, please,” she ordered. “I’m going to examine you, Sir.”  
  
Jack complied and revealed more ugly bruising on his back and ribs. Surprisingly there were no marks on his hands or arms. He hadn’t tried to defend himself. He hadn’t fought back.  
  
“What happened,” she said as she handed him his undershirt.  
  
Jack pulled it over his head, grunting at the pain. “They had some questions for me. I didn’t want to answer them. That’s all.”  
  
“What kinds of questions?” Fraiser asked. The fierce look on his face made her wish she didn’t need to know.  
  
“About … they were …” he stopped and turned away. “Carter, Major Carter. They are threatening to drag her into this Janet.”  
  
Janet almost spoke, but then realized Jack’s shoulders were shuddering. He leaned against the wall, still without facing her and put his hand to his face. She stood awkwardly, watching him struggle to regain his composure, not knowing what to do or say to comfort him.  
  
Finally, when she saw him wipe his palm across his eyes, she said. “We won’t let that happen, Sir.”  
  
He turned on her, suddenly furious. “You’re too late,” he barked. “I let it happen. Everything they are going to say is absolutely true. I’ve taken the best officer I ever served with and dragged her into the muck.”  
  
Then the fury ran dry. Jack sat on the plank bench and put his face in his hands and continued. “There isn’t a damned thing I can do about it. Go ahead. Tell the General. Tell Jacob. Get her off world if you can. Get her out of this … please.”  
  
Jack looked up at her. He’d destroyed what he loved. Again. It was there in his face.  
  
“I’ll tell General Hammond,” she promised. “Don’t let this happen again, Jack. It won’t help Sam for you to sacrifice yourself. You know that right?”  
  
As soon as she said the words, Janet Fraiser wanted to bite them back. But it was too late. His face had transformed from despair to elation. Jack stood, hugged her hard, kissed the top of her head and said, “Doc, that’s it. God, why didn’t I see that myself? Thanks for coming to see me!”  
  
Before she could argue the bailiff knocked on the door. “Doctor, lunch break’s over. They want him back in the courtroom.”  
  
Janet turned away, still searching for words that would dissuade him. She couldn’t think of any way to stop him. Jack O’Neill had always had a self-destructive side. Now he was going put it to full use. He looked so much happier, so much at peace. Janet couldn’t find the words.  
  
  
ΩΩΩ  
  
The judge gaveled the courtroom back into session as Janet slipped in the door. She quickly took a seat. General Hammond was still in the front of the room, too far away to speak with him.  
  
Jack was led back into court. His uniform jacket was slightly askew. The buttons were misaligned. His cowlicks had reasserted themselves. He was no longer the stoic who'd presented himself to the court all morning. He'd transformed. He looked happy.  
  
The change made Fraiser’s blood run cold. Janet held her breath as he leaned towards his counsel. She prayed, `don't do it Jack.'  
  
He whispered in the young woman's ear. She turned. Janet saw that she was astounded. She shook her head, but Jack glared down at her and said something, too low to be heard. Janet's heart froze. She knew Jack O'Neill too well to wonder what he'd said: courageous, gallant, impulsive Jack - Jack in love. He was sacrificing himself to shield Sam.  
  
The Judge had been watching as well and interrupted sharply. "Counselor, do I have your attention?"  
  
The young Captain jumped and stammered, "I beg your pardon, Your Honor. May I request a brief recess to confer with my client?"  
  
"Captain, we've just had a recess," the Judge pointed out.  
  
The defense attorney persisted, "may I approach the bench?"  
  
The Judge signaled for both attorneys to approach. "Explain," she commanded Jack's counsel.  
  
"Your Honor, the prosecution offered my client a plea bargain when he was first detained."  
  
"And the General turned it down flat," the Judge replied. "I read the transcript."  
  
The Captain continued, " I have a counteroffer, but I need to confer with General O'Neill to make certain he understands the full implications of his decision."  
  
The Judge considered O'Neill. The General had been a stone before lunch. `Now he seems quite different,' she mused, wondering whether he still had full command of his faculties. `Some combat veterans don't,' she thought. `His service record shows he's seen a lot of action, from Vietnam to recent missions so deeply classified that even I can't know where he served, or why. He's distinguished himself in battle, often under hellish conditions. God knows, this man has earned a little latitude.'  
  
The Judge turned to the Prosecutor and asked, "Are you willing to entertain a counteroffer at this point?"  
  
The Prosecutor agreed and the Judge leaned back, watched the attorneys return to their stations and then announced. "This court is adjourned until further notice." She rapped her gavel, stood and swept out of the room, a surprised jury and gallery murmuring in her wake.  
  
  
ΩΩΩ  
  
Jack followed the bailiff to his cell. His attorney trotted behind them. He could hear her taking two steps for each of his own strides. `She's petite in the extreme,' he thought, “but a real fighter. Like that kid Carter saved from expulsion, Haley. She's probably off world by now with SG-16,' he mused for a moment.  
  
Then he pulled himself up short, `Hold it! Not your world anymore, not your concern. Keep thinking about that stuff and you'll go nuts. You know better.'  
  
He entered the cell. The door slammed shut. His heart hammered wildly. He leaned against the wall, keeping his back to his attorney. The sound of the door had triggered those old feelings of being trapped. He forced his hands to be still. If they trembled, the attorney might see. She might misunderstand. She might not help.  
  
"I want legal guarantees that no one else will be prosecuted. Do whatever it takes; just make them keep their word. No one else is to be touched in any way by this. The record of this agreement will be sealed and buried so deep that nobody can ever find it," he stated without looking at the woman.  
  
He heard her sigh and settle herself on the bench. "What's happened, General O'Neill?" she asked. "Yesterday you wanted this fight." He didn't answer. She continued, "I know you did not collaborate with the Yult, Sir. So, why plead guilty when you're innocent?"  
  
He wanted to tell her to mind her own business. The walls were closing in; rage was chewing its way out. "Because," he whispered, "I am guilty as sin. I screwed up with the Yult. I don't know exactly why, but I told them things. I helped them try to infiltrate the SGC. I did those things, Captain. It was treason."  
  
"You were drugged, Sir. I've got the blood chemistry to prove it," she reminded him.  
  
"Doesn't matter. I wanted to help them," he snapped back.  
  
"Because you were drugged, " she persisted gently.  
  
"Because it was Kennedy!" he roared, spinning to loom over her.  
  
The Captain froze. She stared up at him like a hare under a hawk. Jack wanted to die.  
  
`For Christ sakes, she's only trying to help and you're scaring the crap out of the kid.' He carefully unclenched his fists and stared down at his hands. At least they'd stopped shaking.  
  
The bailiff banged on the door. “You okay in there, Captain?” he called.  
  
"I'm sorry," Jack said. "I won't do that again, Captain. It's just ... very ... hard."  
  
The Captain gave him a thin smile and said, “This is a privileged and confidential consultation, Sergeant. Please leave us alone. I am fine."  
  
Then she turned back to Jack. “General O’Neill, please tell me why you've had this sudden change of heart, Sir. It's my duty to ensure that you are represented and that justice is served in this matter. I can't do that, until I understand."  
  
O'Neill stared at her a moment and then replied flatly, "Carter. Major Samantha Carter. I love her. I've loved her for years. I didn't do anything about it. I worked with her everyday. I told myself it was enough to be with her. I told myself there'd be time ... later. Then, there was an accident, just a stupid traffic accident. Suddenly, there was no later."  
  
He sat heavily on the bench so he wouldn't have to look at the young woman. His knees were like water. He'd never spoken these thoughts, never allowed himself to have these thoughts.  
  
"By a miracle, I lived. A lot had happened. I was ... angry. I decided to retire. I had Carter reassigned. I went to tell her. She was standing there. I was out, as good as free. Later wasn't good enough anymore. I ..."  
  
He looked down at his hands and consciously unclenched the fists again. "I ... fraternized with my subordinate, Captain. I never thought that the prosecution might know about it. Not so fast. They picked me up the next morning. I thought the `conduct unbecoming an officer was about the Yult. But, late last night, some old acquaintances of mine made things clear. This is not about the Yult, not at all. It's about Carter."  
  
Jack rubbed his face. All he wanted was to be done. `God, I'm so tired,' he thought, wishing the girl beside him would just go file the papers. "Captain, Samantha Carter is brilliant. Her work is absolutely essential to ... to national security. It's top secret, classified. I will not let my lack of discretion get in the way of that work. I did commit the actions I'm accused of committing. I'm guilty. I'll pay for my mistakes. Carter won't. I will not permit it."  
  
He stared at his shoes while she considered. Finally, she sighed and said, "Sir, the court has a duty to grant clemency - for valor, for past service, for extenuating circumstances, for all sorts of valid reasons. Mercy is part of Justice, General. If you plead guilty, the Court may grant clemency. If you plea-bargain, we lose that option. The deal you make today will be your only deal, Sir."  
  
Jack smiled grimly and said, "Understood. What do I have to offer? What'll they accept?"  
  
She frowned and said, "We can offer a guilty plea. You have a better than equal chance before a jury. Your service record alone could save you from doing any time. All that you've ... experienced. They can't ignore it.”  
  
“So, that's our advantage. The Prosecutor knows this. He wouldn't have even listened to our counteroffer if he wasn't worried. He will want to ensure that you can't play to that advantage. That means we need to plead guilty.”  
  
“I strongly urge you to retain the option to ask for clemency, however, General O’Neill."  
  
"They'll go for that?" O'Neill pressed.  
  
"They might."  
  
"Might doesn’t cut it, Captain. I need to be certain,” he said. “ What else have I got?"  
  
"Just the sentence, General O’Neill. You can plead guilty and accept the death penalty, promise not to seek clemency. Sir, that's no bargain at all. It's suicide. I won't let you, General."  
  
O'Neill glared at her. His rage threatened to boil over again. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "If you don't help me, I'll find another way, Captain. God knows what damage they'll do to Carter, an innocent officer, to her career, to her work, to national security. If you don't help me, you won't save me. You'll only help them ruin her.”  
  
He saw her resolve waver and pressed on, “Please, Captain. I've got to fix this. I need your help."  
  
"But, it's a death sentence, General O'Neill," she said softly.  
  
He stood and said. "There are worse things, Captain." He turned and faced the wall, remembering, "Believe me."  
  
  
ΩΩΩ  
  
Sam leaned back; flexing as far as her back would bend away from her lab bench. She ached from hours of hanging over her equipment and scribbling notes in her lab records.  
  
Yult technology was very similar to the technology of the Tok’Ra and the Goa’uld. All three technologies were crystal-based, manipulating electromagnetic fields via crystals rather than wires. The approach was elegant, and its elegance gave an impression of simplicity.  
  
It was a false impression. In fact, it was a highly complex approach, based on a sophisticated knowledge of physics. Also, it had few moving parts, making it tough to decipher.  
  
Sam’s stomach growled. She’d skipped lunch and now had missed dinner, as well. She stretched and bent back over her calculations. If she couldn’t be with Jack, she’d damn well carry out his orders as fast as humanly possible.  
  
There was a knock on the door. She ignored it. A moment later she heard Daniel’s voice. “Sam, I can see the lights are on. Open up, please.”  
  
She’d locked the door hours ago to keep everyone from bothering her about food and rest and whether she was holding up alright while they crucified Jack. She was fed up with it. All she wanted to think about was the physics and getting Triangle online as fast as possible.  
  
Another banging brought her head up again. “Oh, yeah. Daniel,” she said. “Hang on Daniel. I’m coming,” she hollered as she walked stiffly over to the door and flipped the lock.  
  
“Sam,” Daniel said as he stepped inside. “It’s late. You missed dinner.” He held up a brown bag. “I brought you some burgers.”  
  
“Thanks Daniel,” she said. She accepted the bag and her stomach growled again. She reached inside and pulled out a cold burger, then took a massive bite. “It’s good,” she mumbled, still chewing. “Thanks.”  
  
She turned back to the bench. Daniel followed her.  
  
“How’s it going?” he asked.  
  
“Let me show you,” she offered, glad for a chance to talk through it. “I’ve designed a system that ties each of the BQs together as a force-magnifier. Right?” She glanced at Daniel to see if he was following the basics. He nodded his understanding.  
  
“So, we place the BQs far apart,” she continued. “We’ll need hardened sites. Then we tap a power source, something with a lot of energy. The more powerful the better.”  
  
“A nuke?” Daniel asked.  
  
“Bigger,” Sam stated, then popped the last bite of burger into her mouth.  
  
“The sun?” Daniel asked.  
  
“Closer,” Sam said shaking her head. “I haven’t figured the power source out yet.” She rubbed her hair and continued. “So, there’s a power source. I’ll tie it into the BQs, draw the power into the Triangle and force-magnify it until I can generate a massive plasma stream of super-charged particles.”  
  
“How do you direct it?” Daniel asked. “You don’t have enough BQs to change the angle if they come from behind the planet. We won’t be able to stop them until they enter your field of fire.”  
  
Sam nodded, “I know and they might not do that, ever. I think I’ve got the line of sight problem beat, though. We use a bend magnet. I’ve got the biggest honking magnet on the planet to work with. I use it turn the stream of plasma, by altering the relationship of the magnetic field to the force through the BQs, I think I can wrap the plasma stream right around the planet, if necessary.”  
  
“So, where are we placing the BQs?” Daniel asked.  
  
“For maximum coverage, at the four corners of the Earth. Each pole gets one and there will be one here on the island and one in the Sea of Japan on the opposite side of the planet,” Sam answered. “The local unit will tie into the power core from the Yult ship. It’ll be the interface for the targeting system.”  
  
“How long before you have it working?” Daniel asked, flopping on the couch.  
  
“Don’t know, yet,” Sam said. “A few weeks, maybe less. It depends on when I come up with a power source and how complicated linking it to the BQs will be. Also, how fast Zeek moves on the salvage operation.”  
  
She yawned as she ate the second burger. “It’s mostly logistics,” she concluded chewing thoughtfully.  
  
Daniel watched her and worried. She was too pale and very tired. A few days ago, she looked like a young woman. Now she looked old. He wanted to suggest that she rest. But he hated people lecturing him about sleeping and eating when he was working on something important. Instead of suggesting a nap, he said, “So for your part, it’s just the power source. After you find one, anyone can put the device in place.”  
  
Sam nodded, still munching the bite of burger. “It’s got to be something powerful, close by and powerful.”  
  
Daniel knew she was thinking aloud. He waited, letting her work it through.  
  
“Solar is no good. Nukes take too long to get in place and, besides, they would be very dangerous in this unstable geologic environment.” Sam stared at Daniel and repeated, “Unstable geologic environment! The magma. It’s less than a thousand yards from the power core. Less than a thousand yards and we can tap into the planet’s molten core!” She was standing suddenly, rummaging around on her workbench and muttering.  
  
Daniel let her continue for a moment. When she paused and smiled up at him, he asked, “So, you’ll tie into the Earth’s core? Why won’t that destroy the power core, melt it or something?”  
  
“It will,” Sam said, “unless it encounters a highly active power shunt. Then, if the power can be drawn down before it destroys the device, it will never reach that point. I’ll just use the power skin to draw off the power before it can do any damage.”  
  
Daniel sat on the couch and watched in silence as Sam worked. She didn’t move for hours, except for a continuous scribbling in her notebook. Daniel drifted off, hearing her scribbling in his dreams.  
  
Birdsong woke him. He opened his eyes and saw nothing but the aqua glow of the BQ tower. Sam was gone. He stood and stretched. A moment later the door opened and Sam returned.  
  
“Morning, Daniel!” she called out. “Hungry?” She carried a sack of food and a thermos of coffee.  
  
Daniel joined her at the lab bench and asked, “How’s it going?”  
  
“Done. Daniel, I’m done. Somebody else can pull it together. I’ve got the design finished and I’m out of here. Zeek can manage the rest. He’s far more experienced with construction and salvage operations than I am anyway. Here are the calculations.” She tapped the notebook.  
  
Daniel glanced at the page of cramped scribbles. He could read Sanskrit and more than fifty other languages, ancient and modern, off-world and Earth-based, but not Sam Carter’s handwriting. Daniel grunted and said, “Now what?”  
  
“I’m going home. I’m going to see Jack. I’m getting married. Today, if possible,” she answered. “You want to come?”  
  
He nodded and said. “I’ll get Teal’c. We’ll all go.” Then he stood and hugged her hard. “We’ll all go, Sam, but first I have to tell you something important.”  
  
  
ΩΩΩ  
  
“How could you not tell me?” Carter demanded. “I asked you point blank, Daniel. You lied to my face!”  
  
Daniel shifted uneasily in his seat and gazed out at the clouds. He’d told Sam everything on the way to the airstrip, everything Gorlagon had said about his impending disappearance and his future with Sam Carter.  
  
Sam had been furious. For the past three hours, she’d alternated between periods of bone-chilling silence and outbursts. Daniel had felt like a schmuck for keeping Gorlagon’s secret. Now, telling the truth had made things even worse.  
  
“Sam,” Daniel tried again. “He told me it would happen years from now. Years!”  
  
Sam spun on him and hissed, “You told me I was hallucinating! Dammit, Daniel! What else don’t I know?”  
  
“I’m sorry Sam. I didn’t know it would happen so soon. You have to understand, Gorlagon is Jack O’Neill. Our Jack. He asked me to trust him, Sam, and I do. He said you needed not to know! I begged him to tell you but he was … worried about changing the future. I think now that Jack was worried he’d lose his future with you. I had no choice, Sam. I had to respect his choice. Remember 1969? You told us that, Sam.”  
  
Sam’s eyes dropped and she said, “I know, Daniel. It’s just… We haven’t had years. We had less than a day, and now I’ve got this … bad feeling.”  
  
Daniel watched her rage fade away; leaving something he’d never seen in Sam Carter, fear and vulnerability.  
  
He reached for her hand and gave it a strong squeeze. “Okay, Sam. Here’s what I know. Jack told me that someday he’ll go on a mission and vanish. He wanted you to know that, when it happens, it will not be his choice. He told me to make you understand that and …” Daniel hesitated.  
  
“What else, Daniel,” Sam asked softly.  
  
“He told me to tell you not to wait. He won’t be back,” Daniel said quickly, before he lost his nerve.  
  
The blood drained from Sam’s face. Daniel gave her hand another squeeze. “I’m sorry, Sam,” he said.  
  
“Vanish?” she said, “to where?”  
  
“Not where, when,” Daniel said. “He’s thrown back in time. He said he’ll step through the Star Gate and end up in the ocean, in the middle of a violent storm, in the year 495 A.D.”  
  
“That’s impossible,” Sam said automatically. “The Star Gate is not a time machine.”  
  
Daniel shook his head and said, “No, it’s not impossible, Sam. Remember, 1969?”  
  
Tears spilled down Sam’s cheeks and she said, “Yeah, 1969.”  
  
  
ΩΩΩ  
  
Jack sat quietly while his attorney made the offer. She started with a lesser offer, “Lay off Carter, O’Neill accepts life in prison and pleads guilty.”  
  
The prosecutor shook his head and said, “No. That’s not good enough.”  
  
She said, “Okay. Then what? The death sentence? For this man? He’s a hero. He’s saved … well. You know his record. You can’t want him dead.”  
  
The Prosecutor continued without flinching, “But we do. I do know his record. So do my superiors. He’s a menace. He’s a dangerous man with dangerous links to powerful aliens. As long as he’s alive, this planet is at risk. As long as he’s alive, there is nothing to stop his alien friends from plucking him out of his cell and setting him loose on the Universe again. So, yeah, we do want him dead. That’s the only plea I’ll accept. If we need to bring his playmate in here to get it, we’ll do that, too.  
  
The man never saw it coming. O’Neill’s fist connected with a resounding smack. The Prosecutor flew backwards, crashed against the wall and fell in a heap. He didn’t move.  
  
The defense attorney stared for a moment. Then she turned to O’Neill, gazed at him a long moment and said, “Nice punch, General.”  
  
The man regained consciousness eventually. By then, O’Neill was back in his cell. The negotiations concluded. The Prosecutor got what he wanted and O’Neill was satisfied. Carter was safe.  
  
  
ΩΩΩ  
  
Sam slipped into the courtroom just as the bailiff called the court to order. She saw General Hammond settle onto a bench beside Doctor Fraiser. Jack wasn’t present. The Judge entered, alone. There was no jury this afternoon.  
  
Sam’s stomach tightened when Jack entered the courtroom. He was wearing a General’s full dress uniform. ‘He got his stars,’ she realized. ‘He never said anything.’ Jack looked tired. A hint of bruising around his right eye told her he’d been fighting. Or they’d interrogated him.  
  
The Judge steepled her fingers and spoke. “As I understand it, there has been a plea agreement. I’ve reviewed the proposal. Brigadier General Jonathan O’Neill, please stand.”  
  
Jack stood and she continued. “You have pled guilty to thirty-five counts of crimes against the United States, General. I’ve reviewed your service record, Sir. I am mystified. Can you offer any reason for this court to grant you clemency? Several of these charges carry a death sentence. General O’Neill I am not inclined to take that step if you can offer grounds for mercy.”  
  
Sam held her breath, waiting for Jack to speak. Jack was silent for a long moment. Then, he said. “No, thank you your honor. I am guilty.”  
  
Sam started to stand, to protest, but General Hammond was already on his feet. “Well, I sure as hell have something to say, Judge! This man is innocent, no matter what he says. He was drugged. I can prove it, Your Honor. He’s letting them railroad him. This isn’t justice, it’s assisted suicide!”  
  
O’Neill spun on Hammond like a caged animal and roared, “Let it alone! For Christ sakes, this is what I want, George!”  
  
Sam gaped. She’d never known Jack O’Neill to give up on anything. But there he was, shouting in General Hammond’s face that he wanted to die.  
  
The Judge gaveled for silence, as the bailiff dragged O’Neill back into his seat. She considered the man for another moment. Then she spoke. “I understand that the agreement is for the death penalty. I am not empowered to disturb this agreement unless I feel it is a miscarriage of justice.”  
  
She paused and looked directly at General Hammond. “I understand your loyalty to this man. General O’Neill is an extraordinary officer. This country owes him more than it can ever repay for his long years of service in war and in the service of peace and exploration. It is tragic to see him before the court on such damning charges. Personally, the sheer magnitude of this man’s plummet rocks me. It is not within my power to grant clemency, however, unless a defendant seeks it. General O’Neill has refused to ask for mercy. I’m sorry for that, General, truly sorry.”  
  
Sam’s heart stopped. The Judge scanned the faces in the courtroom, sighed and continued. “Clemency is granted to the guilty. Guilt requires mens rea, a guilty mind. I’m not convinced the necessary mens rea exists in this case. To determine that issue, I order General O’Neill remitted to the Air Force hospital psychiatric unit, Colorado Springs, Colorado, under the oversight of General Hammond, Doctor Fraiser and Doctor Mackenzie, Chief of Psychiatry.”  
  
“If, at the conclusion of testing, it’s shown that General O’Neill was competent and is competent, the death sentence will be entered against him. If not, if General O’Neill was not in complete control of his faculties at any period relevant to these charges, I will vacate this plea bargain and impose my own judgment in this matter.”  
  
The Judge considered O’Neill. His face was twisted with shock and despair. He looked like a man who wanted to die. The Judge knew Jack O’Neill’s file. He had once been a fine, heroic officer, who’d served with distinction. O’Neill had been on the bloody end of every conflict from Vietnam to off-world battles that no one could officially acknowledge.  
  
He’d always been a tough case, a fighter by all accounts, until now. He’d fought back from the hell he’d been through in Iraq. He fought back after his son died tragically, but not from this.  
  
‘Why?’ she wondered. Then, the Judge spoke sadly, almost pleading with the man, “Cooperate, Sir. This court is adjourned until further notice.” Then she dropped the gavel once, stood and walked out of the courtroom. As she left, she heard O’Neill growl, “Dammit! You don’t know what you’ve done, George.”  
  
Sam Carter heard, too.  
  
  
ΩΩΩ  
  
Mackenzie sat looking at O'Neill. The patient was asleep. His tear-stained face was becoming peaceful now. It had been a rough session.  
  
Mackenzie had started with the subject alert. "Morning, General O'Neill," he had greeted the man. O'Neill had been civil for once. He didn't seem to have the energy to spar.  
  
"General, I've been ordered to evaluate you. I know your record. I know your history. But there are details that I need to understand," Mackenzie said.  
  
O'Neill waited.  
  
"It's going to be unpleasant for both of us, but I've got to understand you. That means I've got to understand Iraq. Until then, you were a stellar career soldier. You never missed a step. Not until Iraq."  
  
Mackenzie paused and waited for a reply. O’Neill said nothing, but sat with his head tilted slightly. Mackenzie looked for the sarcasm so typical of the man’s defenses. It was there, in the eyes, but still the patient held back. Mackenzie realized the man was playing him and knew he’d have to give O’Neill a push or get nowhere fast.  
  
"Since then, things keep threatening to come apart, don't they? You pulled it together, after Iraq, for your wife Sara, for your son. You put it away and kept going for them. It worked for a while. Then Charlie died, Sara left and you tried to kill yourself."  
  
Mackenzie felt O'Neill's gaze burning on him and knew he was making progress, but he kept his eyes fixed on the file. He wasn't ready to let O'Neill engage him. Not yet.  
  
"You were lucky. Somehow you didn't die on Abydos. You planned to die. You had orders to stay behind and trigger the device. There was a hitch: Doctor Jackson, the people of Abydos. As much as you wanted to die, you couldn't take innocent people with you."  
  
"For a while, you pulled it together again. You connected with people. You let your guard down, didn't you? You even fell in love. Now that's ended. You're back at the brink. You're going over this time, aren't you? This is not Abydos. This time you must sacrifice yourself, to save a friend, or maybe a lover?"  
  
O'Neill's eyes had stopped drilling into him when Mackenzie looked up. The man had his eyes closed. His hands were gripping the arms of the chair in a white-knuckled grip. Mackenzie waited. He let O'Neill have time.  
  
Eventually, Mackenzie saw the hands relaxed. The jaw unclenched. The eyes opened. O'Neill glared at him. Those eyes reminded Mackenzie of the big cats he had once seen in a traveling circus. The majestic beasts had paced endlessly in too small cages, trapped, no way out. Their hate and fury burned in eyes exactly like Jack O'Neill's.  
  
Mackenzie stifled his fear. He could open this cage, if O'Neill would let him dig out the key. "I need to go through this, General. I am sorry. I am not trying to hurt you."  
  
O'Neill growled sarcastically, "It's all in the report I filed."  
  
Mackenzie lifted the five pages and said, "Four months. One hundred and twenty-three days. They held you for a long time, General. This report is five pages. It states the facts of it accurately, I am sure. It doesn't tell me what happened to you. You have to tell me that, Sir."  
  
"I don't remember," Jack said.  
  
"You were wounded. Your CO thought you were killed in action He reported you KIA," Mackenzie prompted, purposefully touching that first hot button.  
  
"Cromwell ran away!" O'Neill snapped. "He was scared shitless. He lost it and ran. He left me behind."  
  
"You were badly wounded, covered in blood and gore. You were unconscious. He thought you were dead." Mackenzie took the next step. "Cromwell made a mistake."  
  
Jack pounced, "and I paid for it!" he roared.  
  
"Tell me what happened, General. How did you get hit?" Mackenzie changed the subject, veering away from Cromwell.  
  
“Go to hell,” O’Neill snarled.  
  
Mackenzie realized that O’Neill was aware he was being manipulated. ‘Time for a different approach,’ he thought. Steepling his fingers, he smiled at the infuriated General. The hair on the back of his neck stiffened at O’Neill’s response. The man didn’t utter a sound, but fixed him with a glare that somehow made perfectly clear that he could kill with his bare hands and it was only a question of choosing the method.  
  
MacKenzie’s insides turned to water, but he swallowed and tapped the file. “If you don’t cooperate, General O’Neill, I’ll do you one better. I won’t go to hell, Sir. I’ll go to the Judge. If I do, we’ll see what your choices are after she learns that you’ve refused to cooperate. Then, you’ll go to a hospital. I think you might be there for a very long time. That’s not part of your plans, Sir, is it?”  
  
“Son-of-a-bitch,” O’Neill hissed.  
  
“When necessary,” Mackenzie croaked. “Now, you were about to tell me what happened.”  
  
Jack stared for a moment, and then said, "I was on point. I encountered a roving patrol. I waited. They passed me by. I was pulling back. One of them must have stopped to take a leak. He came jogging up the trail and almost fell over me."  
  
Mackenzie didn’t make eye contact. After a long moment, the patient continued.  
  
"I attacked. We were rolling around in the dark when we hit a mine. He was blown to hell right under me."  
  
Mackenzie glanced up at O'Neill's face. The eyes told him the man was back there, reliving it. He was ready. "Roll up your sleeve, please General," Mackenzie said.  
  
Jack hesitated.  
  
“Or do I go to the Judge and get a court order, Sir?” Mackenzie continued.  
  
The patient complied then, eyeing the syringe warily. "What is that stuff?" he asked as he turned his arm toward Mackenzie, offering a vein.  
  
"It will let you remember. It's like truth serum. It will feel real, General, but I will keep you safe. I promise," Mackenzie said feeling suddenly strangely protective of this arrogant, hostile son-of-a-bitch who was forced to let his defenses down, forced to finally get help that he didn’t want but clearly needed.  
  
"Go on," Mackenzie urged.  
  
O’Neill stared at him for a long minute before speaking. "I don’t remember much of it. A blast caught me. His body shielded me from some of it, I guess. Shrapnel caught me in the legs, in my head. I guess I passed out.”  
  
Mackenzie leaned forward and raised his brows expectantly. O’Neill grimaced, rolled his eyes and kept speaking. “Then, somehow, Cromwell was there. He rolled me over and started puking his guts out. I tried to tell the stupid bastard that it wasn't me. The guts weren't mine. He wouldn’t listen. He just kept bawling and barfing.”  
  
“He threw me over his shoulder. I let go. I trusted him. Next thing I know he drops me and takes off." Jack stopped talking and didn’t seem inclined to continue this time.  
  
After a long wait, Mackenzie prompted him. "He thought he was leaving a corpse."  
  
"He was wrong," Jack shot back. "I woke up on a white tile floor. It was wet and very cold. I tried to move, but my hands and feet were tied.”  
  
“Go on,” Mackenzie murmured, but this time it wasn’t really necessary. The drugs were starting to work.  
  
“They held a hose on me. There was blood everywhere. It ran down the drain: My blood; the other guy's blood. They left me there."  
  
O'Neill was silent, so Mackenzie spoke. "You escaped, General. When you were picked up, the record shows you'd been tortured. They didn't know who you were, at first. Cromwell identified you. You didn't speak for three months. Why? What happened to you, Sir?"  
  
"I don't remember," Jack snarled.  
  
"You haven't remembered," Mackenzie pressed. "We're going deeper than that, Sir. You will remember."  
  
"Why?" O'Neill demanded. "Why do I have to remember this crap?"  
  
"Your life is at stake. It's your only chance. Iraq is the key. You know it," Mackenzie said firmly, trying to hide his surprise that the patient was still fighting this.  
  
“Bullshit,” O’Neill shot back, “you’re not saving me from anything. So spare me the hearts and flowers, Doc.”  
  
“Fine, General,” Mackenzie snapped. “Then let’s just say this is the one way you get to choose what happens next, shall we? You have no choice unless you take me through this.”  
  
Then, before the patient could argue further, he reached into his pocket and pulled out the syringe. He turned Jack's arm and injected another, much larger dose of serum. He felt the muscles go slack. The jaw unclenched and O'Neill's head fell back.  
  
Jack felt the needle. His eyelids dropped. He felt Mackenzie tighten the straps holding him in the chair. Then he tasted hot sand and smelled cordite. Shots rang out. Jack heard rotors overhead.  
  
"The chopper's here," he mumbled. "Cromwell's ride out."  
  
Mackenzie watched O'Neill struggle to stand. He could barely hear the next words.  
  
"Jesus, Frank, don't leave!"  
  
The rotors faded. It was quiet. Jack was alone in the desert.  
  
Jack fought as they dragged him to the truck. Shrapnel had torn through both legs. Something was wrong with his head. He couldn't get a fix on up. Everything kept spinning.  
  
The truck lurched. It threw him against the metal bed. He groaned and swore. Men laughed. Someone prodded the bloody gash in his thigh. He cursed them and passed out.  
  
Jack awoke to the stench of rotten meat and fear. He opened his eyes and rubbed a hand across his face. It was encrusted with a thick layer of filth and sand. It was in his mouth and ears. He knew it was the other man. He gagged and puked, weeping with pain. Then the blackness closed in again.  
  
Mackenzie's voice came to him in a monotone, "They had you. You were in the shower. What happened next?"  
  
Jack heard Mackenzie's voice. Cold water hit him. He tried to move, but his hands and feet were tied. He pulled his knees against his chest to shield himself from the icy blast of water.  
  
He tasted blood, opened his eyes and saw a dark red stream circling the drain: his blood, the other man's blood.  
  
"It's all the same blood now,” the patient muttered.  
  
Mackenzie sat quietly, taking notes.  
  
“They grabbed me, blindfolded me and dragged me upright. They pulled my arms behind my back, stuck a metal rod between my elbows and hung me from something overhead. Someone hit me. I couldn't see. I couldn't breathe. It hurt. The bastards were laughing."  
  
O'Neill paused and grunted something. Then he continued in a soft sigh. "They stopped laughing all of a sudden. I knew that someone else was in there, with us: An officer, maybe. A warlord. Powerful. The guards were scared of him. I could feel it.  
  
"He spoke broken English, bad English. He had a pumped up British accent. 'Cap-ee-tain Yonathan O'Neill,' he called me. 'You friends are cowards,' he said. 'They leave you. They give you up. No even a little fight. You are no a soldier. No more. You are no a man. No more. You be what I make you to be.' The miserable bastard was right."  
  
"He touched me. I smelled his breath just before he leaned down and gave the rope a pull. Bastard nearly dislocated my shoulders. I told him to fuck himself. He laughed and gave the rope another jerk. Then he barked something at the guards. They cut the rope. I fell. Someone grabbed me and dragged me to a bench or a low table, maybe. It was wooden. It felt rough, heavy. I was tied there, spread-eagle. They left. He stayed. We were alone ... he ... it ... began."  
  
Mackenzie looked up from his notes. The patient was breathing heavily. Sweat was evident on his face and a deep frown etched his forehead. O’Neill’s eyes were open, but staring without seeing. The doctor felt a surge of guilt. He hadn’t looked forward to witnessing this man’s ordeal, but he’d steeled himself to it, telling himself it was necessary to help the man. Now that the patient was reliving it, under duress, Mackenzie felt uncomfortably like the brute who’d put him through it the first time.  
  
"I felt his hands. I tried to fight, but I couldn't move. He just laughed and kept ... doing stuff. It hurt. After awhile, I realized he was pressing something into my mouth. Bitter stuff. Drugs. I took them. I wanted to be somewhere else; anywhere else."  
  
O'Neill paused. Mackenzie waited. After a long time, the patient began again in a low, choked whisper. "I think, then, he untied me. Someone must have untied me because later ... I was on my stomach and I was alone. He left me there for what seemed like a long time -- Days, maybe weeks. He'd come back. Drug me again. Do his business and leave. It went on like that for a ... awhile."  
  
The patient grimaced and then gasped and grabbed the arms of the chair. Mackenzie almost stopped the session. The monitor showed a violent spike in BP and O'Neill's breath was just ragged gasps. Suddenly, inexplicably, he was no longer speaking English. His voice had slipped into a guttural language that sounded like Arabic. Tears and perspiration ran freely down his face and he seemed to be pleading for something.  
  
Was it for water, food, drugs? Or mercy? Mackenzie didn't want to know. Not ever. He leaned forward, gripped O'Neill's clenched fist and ordered sharply, "Move past this Jack." O'Neill's contorted face relaxed slightly and he continued. "I don't know when they moved me into a cell. I woke up and I was there, alone. I hurt. When my head cleared from the drugs, I knew I had to go."  
  
Mackenzie caught the odd nuance and said, "Escape, Jack?"  
  
"No," he replied. "No escape. No blanket, no sheet. My clothes were rags. Nothing to bear my weight. Nothing to make a blade. Nothing to ...."  
  
Mackenzie missed the next part. "What?" he asked.  
  
The answer was in Arabic and Mackenzie repeated, "In English Jack."  
  
"The guards were too careful," Jack went on in English. "Real professionals. It hurt like hell, but they never came close to killing me. Only the officer would do that. The officer. He was my only ... hope."  
  
  
ΩΩΩ  
  
Jack heard them coming for him again. He didn't resist this time. He was too weak to fight anymore. He accepted the soap and washed carefully. Then he stood waiting for the officer.  
  
The man arrived smiling. He stood close, too close. Jack didn't step away. He stood still as a statute while the man stroked his jaw. The officer pressed drugs against his teeth. Jack accepted them with a horrible surge of gratitude.  
  
"Bring a razor," he ordered. He turned to Jack, "Sit." Jack obeyed. He sat quietly as they tied his arms and ankles to the heavy chair.  
  
The officer hovered over him, leering, while they worked. As soon as they finished, he ordered the guards to leave. Then, he smiled down on Jack, reached out and began to soap his beard. The officer held his head to one side and said playfully, "Don't move. I don't want to hurt you."  
  
He laughed and carefully shaved Jack's beard. When he'd finished, he grasped Jack's jaw and said, "Much better. Smooth as woman's ass, now."  
  
Jack could smell his stinking breath as he leaned in close. It smelled of goat cheese and rotten teeth. Jack shuddered as fingers ran along his chest, up his bicep, to wrap around the nape of his neck. The fingers reached into his wet hair. "Like a woman," he murmured. Then he reached down and cut the restraints at Jack's ankles and wrists, gathered a handful of hair and dragged Jack to his knees.  
  
Jack heard him close the razor with a sharp 'snick' but he kept his eyes lowered. There was the rustle of cloth, as the officer slipped the blade into a pocket. For the first time, Jack was not tied. He waited quietly, head bowed.  
  
The officer was eyeing Jack hungrily. He could feel his eyes. Still O'Neill waited. The man stepped close and said something in Arabic. A moment later, Jack heard him unbuckle his belt. He looked up as the man's pants dropped to the floor. Jack understood then and rage burned through the haze of drugs. This time it wasn't going to be rape. The sick bastard expected reciprocity.  
  
Jack looked up, beyond his tormentor's belt line, into his hungry black eyes. The man actually smiled down at him. Jack smiled, too, a split-second before he slammed his doubled fists savagely up into his tormentor's unprotected groin. The man howled, staggered back, tripped and fell hard on the tile floor.  
  
Jack pounced on the dazed man and fumbled through his pockets for the straight razor. His fingers closed on it as the man began to struggle. Jack pulled it free, flicked it open and slashed the man's throat from ear to ear. Hot blood sprayed like a fountain as the man died. Jack laughed. Then, he stripped the man and pulled on his blood soaked pants and tunic. The uniform jacket and boots didn't fit.  
  
Jack fled barefoot.  
  
He'd had never been outside the three rooms. He had no idea where he was, or how to leave. He padded down empty halls, looking for a way out of the prison. After a lifetime, he saw stars through a window. He leaned out and saw he was on the second story. He heard footsteps down the dark hallway. He jumped.  
  
He landed hard and then sprinted across the compound and into the brush beyond. He ran hard, his lungs bursting.  
  
Finally, he stopped and looked up at the stars. They were beautiful, clean and bright. Jack fingered the razor. He could end it now. The razor was sharp. It would be so easy to die.  
  
Instead, he got his bearings from the stars and turned south, toward Kuwait. He walked all night. He heard patrols several times. But they always missed him in the dark. Toward dawn, he saw a village ahead. He swung wide to skirt the buildings.  
  
A dog barked. Another started. Lights came on. Jack crouched in the brush. An engine turned over. He prayed they'd miss him again. He heard the dogs whining and yipping as they searched for him. They came closer and closer, until he knew that, if he didn't run, they'd recapture him.  
  
Jack stood and sprinted. A voice barked for him to stop. He kept running. There was a shot. He felt it tear into his back. He was flung to the ground. As he fell, he thanked god it was finally over. He could rest.  
  
Jack opened his eyes. It was all wrong. He wasn't dead. He couldn't breathe. A plastic tube blocked his mouth and throat. He choked and pulled at the tube.  
  
A woman leaned over him and pulled his hands away, speaking Arabic gently. A moment later a man leaned over him and spoke English. "No," he said. "Let the machine breathe for you, Sir. You have a punctured lung. You will die without the machine. Relax. Let it work."  
  
Jack stopped fighting and closed his eyes, damning a merciless god.  
  
Sometime later the Doctor returned. "Hold still," he ordered. Then he pulled the tube out of Jack's throat with a swift, painful jerk. Jack gagged and choked. His chest was on fire. He felt himself blacking out. But there was a pinch in his arm and his eyes flew open. His heart hammered. He was panting and sweating.  
  
The man turned to a soldier beside him and said, "The adrenalin will keep him conscious for perhaps thirty minutes. I don't want to use it again right away. So, be efficient."  
  
The officer turned to Jack. "I understand you murdered my superior officer."  
  
Jack realized he might still die. "Yes," he spat back, "I enjoyed it."  
  
"Little wonder," the Iraqi said. "I'd have killed the swine, too, if he'd used me like he used you, Captain. My superior was convinced that you are Special Forces. Everything about you tells us - your uniform, your manner. It is clear to anyone with eyes. It pleased him to shame an elite warrior of the most formidable military power in the world. He was an ignorant, sadistic fool, preoccupied with his own wicked desires. It is my good fortune that he's dead. It is not your good fortune, I am afraid. Now you must deal with me. I want information, Captain. I will have it."  
  
Jack waited. The officer continued. "I'm told you'll die if I beat you and the information will die with you. There is another way, I think."  
  
He motioned to a guard. The man stepped out and returned dragging a young man. He was kicking and swearing. His long hair hung in filthy hanks around his bearded face. He'd been here a long time, Jack realized.  
  
"What is your name?" the officer asked.  
  
"Daniel Jeffers," the prisoner said, "and that's all you'll get out of me you filthy bastard."  
  
The officer turned to Jack and said, "Remember that name, Captain. If Daniel Jeffers dies, it's because of you. What is your unit?"  
  
"Don't you tell him, Captain," Jeffers screeched. Jack opened his mouth then closed it. Jeffers was right. There was no way to win this game.  
  
The officer made an almost invisible motion with his hand. The guard pulled the trigger and Jeffers' head exploded against the tiled wall. Jack felt drops spray against his face and hands.  
  
"No," he screamed.  
  
The officer turned away. "Another," he ordered.  
  
Another man was dragged to the wall. "What is your unit?" the officer repeated.  
  
"17th, Delta Force," Jack lied in a whisper.  
  
"Shut up, you goddamned traitor," the POW screamed.  
  
Jack closed his eyes.  
  
"What was your objective?" the officer continued.  
  
"Sam arrays," Jack improvised.  
  
"What was the size of your force?" the officer asked.  
  
"Fifteen men," Jack sobbed the truth.  
  
"What's your wife's name?" the officer demanded.  
  
"What?" Jack rasped.  
  
"It is a test, Captain. I believe you may be lying to me. Prove you are not. Tell me. What is your wife's name?" the officer repeated in a dangerous growl. "Would I enjoy her? How does it feel when she gives herself to you?"  
  
"None of your goddamned business!" Jack roared.  
  
The guard fired. The second man fell.  
  
"Jesus," Jack gasped. "Why'd you kill him? I answered your questions."  
  
"You are killing them, Captain," the officer hissed. "If you refuse to answer, they die. If you lie, they die. If you hesitate, they die. There is nothing you will not tell me, if you wish to save them. I have more than a thousand men in this camp. Those lives depend on your answers, Captain O'Neill. Tell me your wife's name!"  
  
O'Neill closed his eyes. "What is her name?" the officer repeated softly. "It’s a simple thing, of no military significance. What can it hurt? Perhaps I already know."  
  
O'Neill clenched his jaw. A thousand POWs’ lives depended on him. A shot rang out. He gasped but didn't speak. There was another shot, and another, another, another.  
  
Jack O'Neill didn't speak again. Intelligence indicated that, a few days later, the intelligence officer probably ordered another adrenalin treatment. It wouldn't have worked, of course. Captain Jack O'Neill was long gone.  
  
Mackenzie guessed that no less than twenty prisoners had been murdered before O'Neill collapsed possibly many more.  
  
Mackenzie waited quietly for O'Neill to waken. The heartbeat had returned to normal. The breathing was evening out. Still, it would take a couple of hours for the serum to wear off. Mackenzie re-read O'Neill's file while he waited. It was a depressing story.  
  
The Iraqi doctors had kept O'Neill alive, obviously.  
  
Mackenzie knew from the file that O'Neill had been held at al-Radhwaniya, an infamous detention center on the outskirts of Baghdad. They would have used any number of interrogation techniques. Such practices were confirmed by credible international sources, such as Amnesty International. Besides, even without the expert reports, to Mackenzie’s practiced eye, O'Neill still carried the proof.  
  
It didn't seem likely that he remembered that part. Even with the serum, he'd buried it too deep. Mackenzie wasn't about to dig it out.  
  
At some point, his captors must have realized that O'Neill was beyond reach. The Doctors, to their credit, kept him alive. When he was strong enough, they released him into the general prison population.  
  
Other POWs reported how they'd looked after the deathly silent young officer. They'd cared for Captain O'Neill, kept him alive for another month, despite the wretched conditions inside the prison. When they escaped, they'd dragged him along.  
  
The men who saved him reported that O'Neill hadn't spoken a word since the interrogations. The medical file indicated he had not spoken again for months after his return.  
  
The Air Force doctors did their best. They healed his tough young body with relative ease, but couldn't reach his mind. For three months, they tried, using all the latest techniques. Finally, the Air Force notified his wife that Captain O'Neill was well enough for visitors. It must have been a terrible moment, Mackenzie supposed, when Sara O'Neill saw the wreck the Air Force was giving back to her.  
  
Sara O'Neill was a strong woman. The file showed that she collected her husband immediately. That same day, she took him home. Several weeks later he spoke. His son, Charlie, had hurt himself. Sara wasn't nearby. The boy turned to his father in tears. O'Neill had lifted him up and spoken, comforting the toddler. When Sara returned, he told her what had happened to their son.  
  
Jack never told her what had happened to him. He'd never told a soul, until now.  
  
Mackenzie looked up when O'Neil groaned. "Doc?" he muttered.  
  
"Yes, General. I'm still here," Mackenzie responded. "How are you feeling?"  
  
O'Neill tried to rub his eyes, but his arms were still strapped to the chair arms, "Groggy."  
  
"Do you remember what you told me?" Mackenzie asked.  
  
"Yeah," O'Neill grunted. "I do."  
  
"Do you want to talk about it?" Mackenzie prompted.  
  
O'Neill yawned and said, "Not really. Do I have to?"  
  
"No," Mackenzie replied, as he loosened the straps. "Not until you're ready."  
  
O'Neill rubbed his eyes and said, "I don't expect to ever be ready, Doc."  
  
"I know," Mackenzie said. "How about listening? Can you do that, General?"  
  
O'Neill looked at him, rubbed his wrists and sighed. "Sure. No harm in listening."  
  
Mackenzie gazed back at him a moment and began, choosing his words with great care. "It was not your fault that those men died, General O’Neill. You had no real choice, Sir. It was your sworn duty to resist. Duty aside, cooperation would not have saved them. You know that, too, Sir. If you had cooperated, the questions would not have stopped, not until they had every scrap of intelligence. How many more would have died because of that knowledge? You did the math: a thousand POWs versus losses numbering in the tens of thousands, or maybe higher. Besides, some of those POWs were as good as dead, even if you talked. You knew that the Iraqis would use them to ensure you held nothing back. You did the one thing you could do. You limited their losses. You saved as many as you could by taking yourself out of the equation. You refused to cooperate. Those men who died were murdered. You were a witness."  
  
O'Neill didn't speak, but Mackenzie noticed his jaw muscles working.  
  
"When you were brought back from the Yult, when Doctor Fraiser saved you, how did it feel?" Mackenzie asked.  
  
O'Neill glared at him. Then his eyes dropped and he said, "Like it all happened yesterday. I remember thinking I'd never really escaped. The SGC, the Gate, it all seemed unreal. I had a little trouble telling the difference when I first got back. So what?"  
  
Mackenzie watched O'Neill's eyes. The anger had cooled, but there was still something there of a trapped predator. He chose his next words carefully. "You're not completely past that problem, Sir."  
  
The jaw muscles clenched and Mackenzie wondered it he'd erred, but then O'Neill gave him a nasty smirk and said, "Ya think?"  
  
Mackenzie took a moment to think, and then said," General, did you have those feelings when you were held by the Yult?"  
  
O'Neill frowned and didn't meet Mackenzie's gaze as he answered. "I've felt this before, yeah. The fact is, anytime I go on a mission I think about that place, those men. We left them behind. Some of them never got home. I watched them die. I got home. They didn’t. I think about that a lot, actually. What’d you expect?"  
  
"You don't leave your people behind, Jack," Mackenzie said softly.  
  
O'Neill snorted. "I try not to, but it happens." Mackenzie guessed he was referring to Henry Boyd or perhaps Lieutenant Elliot.  
  
"Has it been worse since you returned, General?" Mackenzie asked.  
  
O'Neill nodded, this time without speaking.  
  
"Have you felt ... hopeless?" Mackenzie asked keeping his voice carefully neutral.  
  
O'Neill glanced up and nodded once.  
  
"Trapped?" Mackenzie asked.  
  
O'Neill sighed and said, "Yeah."  
  
"Suicidal?" Mackenzie continued.  
  
"No, dammit," O'Neill barked. "Not once."  
  
Mackenzie locked his gaze and said, "Abydos."  
  
O'Neill dropped his eyes, then reached up and pinched the bridge of his nose and growled. "Yeah, okay. I took that mission. But I didn't do it. And since then it's been ... better."  
  
Mackenzie frowned and said, "Then why, General O'Neill, have you refused to defend yourself? Why would you plead guilty and agree to a death sentence? It is not the act of a rational mind, Sir."  
  
O'Neill sat forward and said, "It is perfectly rational, Doctor. You just don't have the reasons. If you knew the facts, you'd see that this is perfectly rational. You don't understand it, so you figure I’m nuts.”  
  
"So, help me understand." Mackenzie replied.  
  
"It's none of your business," O'Neill snapped.  
  
Mackenzie knew he was getting to the bottom of it now and said reasonably. "It's in your interest to help me understand, General. Unless I do, my report on your state of mind will be incomplete. Your actions won't seem rational. I'll say that in my report. The Judge will negate your deal."  
  
"Hardball, Doc?" O'Neill smiled grimly.  
  
Mackenzie smiled back, "When helpful."  
  
"What exactly do I have to explain?" O'Neill said.  
  
"Why?" Mackenzie replied. "Tell me why."  
  
"I’ll make it real simple for you. The first night in lock up I had visitors from NID. They made me an offer. If I don’t fight this thing, they leave Carter, my 2IC, out of it. If I get off, they ruin her."  
  
"General O’Neill, that’s murder!” Mackenzie blurted. “I can’t stand by…”  
  
“Privileged communication,” O’Neill cut him off. “This entire discussion is privileged and you damned well know it, Mackenzie. You spill the beans on what I just told you and I’ll have you for lunch. I’ll make put it at the top of my ‘things to do’ list. You got that?”  
  
O’Neill’s eyes were cold and hard. Mackenzie realized that he’d underestimated the man, fallen for the dumb groundpounder routine. ‘Stupid mistake, Angus,’ he scolded himself. Then he gathered his thoughts and shifted tactics.  
  
“But General, 'conduct unbecoming', 'fraternization,' these charges don't apply if you'd already had Carter reassigned. You did nothing wrong," Mackenzie said.  
  
O'Neill grimaced and said. "You think I don’t know that? Here’s a newsflash, Mackenzie, you don't know squat about combat units! You know even less about how the military treats women in combat units. Carter made it. She did it by being twice as smart, working twice as hard and living twice as clean as any man. And, she got lucky. She got a chance to serve on an SG team and she made it. Any hint of this will stop that cold. It will haunt her for the rest of her career. As things stand, she'll make General someday. She'll earn it. She'll deserve it. I'll be damned if I'll be the reason she doesn't make it."  
  
Mackenzie asked, "How can you think this is a wise decision, General. It's your life!"  
  
O'Neill barked back, "It's her life. She's military. She's worked for this since she was a kid. She lives this stuff. I'm not letting them take that from her."  
  
"Why not?" Mackenzie shot back.  
  
O'Neill's eyes widened as he saw the trap. "Because I can't see her hurt because of me," he rasped.  
  
"Why?" Mackenzie leaned forward.  
  
O'Neill glared at him. "I don't know."  
  
"Bullshit," Mackenzie hissed. "Tell me why, General."  
  
"I'm high risk, low probability,” O’Neill growled.  
  
"Of what, exactly," Mackenzie pressed.  
  
"Of happiness," O'Neill hissed. "Sam deserves to be happy."  
  
Mackenzie leaned back and said, "General O'Neill, don't you think that's Major Carter’s decision? After all it's her life, her career. If she loves you, she should have the chance to choose for herself, don't you agree?"  
  
O'Neill closed his eyes and said, "No I do not. First, her work is too damned important, do you get that Mackenzie? Second, she doesn't know me. She only sees what I let her see. She doesn't know the rest."  
  
"What happened in Iraq, you mean?" Mackenzie asked, suddenly seeing it clearly. "You are not worthy of happiness because you couldn't save them?"  
  
O'Neill didn't move a muscle. 'Clear miss,' Mackenzie realized. He tried again. "Because of the ... torture?"  
  
O'Neill's face flushed. The jaw tensed. 'Direct hit,' Mackenzie knew. "Maybe she understands more about that than you give her credit, General." Mackenzie suggested.  
  
"How could she?" O'Neill hissed. "I don't even understand it."  
  
"I’ve seen both your files, Sir. You’re not as smart as her," Mackenzie said, “not even close.”  
  
O'Neill's eyes flew open and he gave a harsh, surprised bark of laughter. "You don't pull your punches, do you Doc?"  
  
Mackenzie ignored him and pressed ahead, "You need to see her, General O'Neill. You need to tell her what's happening. Give her the chance to choose. She's not your subordinate in this, Sir. It's time you treated her like an equal.”  
  
"I am not here for marriage counseling, Doc," O'Neill snarled. "So shove the advice. Now that you know the facts, what's your opinion? Am I rational?"  
  
Mackenzie nodded. "I don't agree with your reasoning, General. But you do have your reasons."  
  
"Good. Then you won't let the Judge interfere," O'Neill smiled.  
  
"Not because of this, no," Mackenzie answered, "but, Sir. From what you've told me, you weren't in control of your faculties when the Yult held you captive. Since then, it's pretty clear that you've suffered from flashbacks, depression and an array of post-traumatic stress symptomology. Each of those is grounds for the Judge to 'interfere' as you put it. I am sorry," Mackenzie concluded.  
  
He looked up and froze. Pure rage burned in O'Neill's eyes. Mackenzie abruptly realized he was alone with the man. No one could save him, if O'Neill snapped.  
  
The General didn't move. His normally restless hands were spread on the table top, perfectly still, like a lion poised to charge.  
  
Mackenzie held O'Neill's gaze. "Am I in danger, General?" he finally managed to squeak.  
  
O'Neill glared at him for another long moment, then stood abruptly, tipping his chair over and stalked out of the room.  
  
Behind Closed Doors  
  
Jack opened his eyes and sat up on his cot. Had there been a knock on his door? ‘Not likely,’ he thought.  
  
Then he heard it again. “Come,” he yawned.  
  
A young guard opened the door. “General O’Neill, it’s visiting hours. You have a visitor, Sir.”  
  
Jack shook his head and lay down again. “Not interested. Thanks.”  
  
The kid hesitated and then blurted, “But, General. It’s a Major. She’s been here every day for the past week. Give her a break, why don’t you?”  
  
Jack fixed the kid with a glare. He squirmed, but continued, “She’s not bad looking for an older lady.”  
  
Jack snorted and sat up. “You mean she’s post-adolescent?” The kid looked puzzled.  
  
It was tempting. He wanted to see her. He knew she was worried, confused, probably pissed off that he’d turned her away. Jack shook his head, “Negative.” He couldn’t let her near, not for a while, not until the deal was done. He had to be sure she’d be left alone.  
  
“Get out of here, Son,” he barked. “Tell her not to come back here again. I won’t see her. Tell her to send Teal’c and I’ll explain.”  
  
The guard shook his head and mumbled, “You are nuts, General O’Neill.”  
  
Jack slumped back on his cot and muttered, “That’s what they tell me, kid.”  
  
Forty-five minutes later, the guard announced Teal’c. Jack followed the kid to the visitor’s area. Teal’c sat on the far side of a wall of clear plastic, several inches thick. The Jaffa’s shoulders were pressed between the walls of the booth. He looked worried.  
  
“O’Neill,” he said, “why won’t you see Major Carter?”  
  
“Nice to see you too, Teal’c,” Jack quipped, biding for time and hoping to avoid the question.  
  
“She is very concerned,” Teal’c persisted. “It is cruel O’Neill to cause her such pain without reason.”  
  
“I’ve got a reason, Teal’c,” Jack sighed, “a damned good reason, but she can’t know about it. She’d do something. You know how she is, Teal’c! I can’t risk it.”  
  
“I do not understand,” Teal’c replied.  
  
“I know you don’t. Just trust me. I’ve got my reasons,” Jack answered. “Teal’c I need you to do something for me.”  
  
“Anything, O’Neill,” he said.  
  
“Tell Hammond to check out Zeek Angstrom,” Jack said. “I’ve been thinking things over. Angstrom worries me. He spent time with Carter, didn’t he?”  
  
“He did,” Teal’c confirmed.  
  
“I’m thinking he was … I don’t know what, but he worries me. If he’s been left in charge of the Triangle, he could do a lot of damage.”  
  
“I see,” Teal’c rumbled. “You think he is a spy. I will tell General Hammond.”  
  
“Thanks,” Jack said, “and ask him to send Carter back down there. I don’t want her hanging around here.”  
  
“I will tell the General what you request,” Teal’c said.  
  
Jack stood to leave, then he turned and said. “Go with her, Teal’c. I know she can handle herself, but I’ll sleep better knowing your there to watch her back.”  
  
“And what about you, O’Neill?” Teal’c asked. “Who will watch over you?”  
  
“Me?” Jack smiled. “I’ve got everything in control, Teal’c. I couldn’t be more …” He glanced at the stone walls, the bars, the guards and continued. “secure.”  
  
Teal’c stood and said, “Good-bye O’Neill.”  
  
Jack nodded and was about to say something to lighten the somber mood when Teal’c continued, “I suggest you wear a life-vest on your next mission.”  
  
“Mission? I’m not going on another mission, Teal’c,” Jack snorted and waved at the guards. “I’m on a sort-of-a different career path now. Hasn’t anyone explained this to you? They’re going to shoot me!”  
  
Teal’c smiled slightly and said, “I told Daniel Jackson that, as well. Still he insists. You must wear a life-vest on your next mission. I left a letter from Major Carter with the guard, O’Neill. Good-bye.”  
  
Then the Jaffa turned and walked away. Jack watched him go. His heart hammered.  
  
‘Another mission,’ he thought, ‘the one where I don’t come back. Crap!’  
  
  
ΩΩΩ  
  
Sam climbed out of the chopper. Teal’c and Daniel followed. General Hammond, after listening to Teal’c’s message from O’Neill, had ordered them all back to the Triangle Project, including Daniel Jackson, just to get the worried archeologist out of the SGC.  
  
As Sam clambered away from the chopper, the rotor wash flung sand and dirt into her face. She shielded her eyes. She was tired, angry and sad.  
  
‘He sent me away,’ she heard the wail again, ‘without a word.’ She was glad then for the flying grit, as she felt tears spill down her face. She wiped her eyes, straightened and turned to find Zeek Angstrom standing before her.  
  
“Sam,” he hollered warmly, shouting to be heard over the rotor noise. Zeek reached for her hand. Sam let him take it, hoping he wouldn’t notice any reserve on her part.  
  
General Hammond had briefed her on O’Neill’s misgivings about Angstrom before sending her back to check on Triangle, to make sure the Project was truly, fully operational.  
  
“Hi, Zeek,” Sam said, giving his hand a friendly squeeze.  
  
“You look tired,” he replied as Teal’c and Daniel joined them. “Do you want something to eat?”  
  
“No,” Sam said as the chopper lifted off, returning to the carrier, “We ate on the carrier. Chow’s better there. We just need a shower and we’ll be ready to get to work.”  
  
“Speak for yourself, Sam, “ Daniel yawned. “I’m beat. I’m going to sleep.”  
Sam ignored the comment and continued to Zeek, “So, can you brief me in thirty minutes?”  
  
“Yes Major,” Zeek chided. Then he grabbed her duffle bag and followed her to her bungalow.  
  
  
ΩΩΩ  
  
General Hammond glanced up at the sound of a rap on his door. “Come,” he said.  
  
“General, Security Chief Chen reporting as ordered, “ an airman said as Chen followed her through the office door and snapped a salute.  
  
Hammond returned the salute and said, “Take a seat Major. We need to talk.”  
  
“Yes, Sir,” Chen sat and waited.  
  
“Major, I have concerns about the security situation at Triangle. I sent O’Neill to look into the situation, but he barely got started. I have reason to believe that there might be a leak there, as well as here at the SGC. I’d like you to personally pull all files on the security staff at SGC and review them for anomalies. Then, if you agree Major, I think it would be wise to crosscheck for connections between the SGC and Triangle. Look for anything suspicious.”  
  
“Yes, Sir!” Chen barked.  
  
“Questions?” Hammond asked.  
  
“Yes. Where did you get this information, General Hammond?” Chen asked.  
  
“Sorry. I can’t tell you that Major Chen. It might be nothing at all, but I’d feel better if you’d look into it.”  
  
Chen stood, saluted and left the General’s office. He headed back to his own office. His mind was whirring. By the time he’d reached his desk he had a plan. He buzzed his assistant. “Send in Sergeant Stone,” he ordered.  
  
‘Shirley’s a go-getter,’ he thought as he waited. ‘She’ll be the one to take the lead on this at Triangle.’  
  
An hour later, Stone had completed her briefing with Chen and was already working on her assignment.  
  
‘This is perfect,’ she mused as she pulled the files for all Triangle personnel. ‘I can cover our tracks and point them in the wrong direction.’  
  
  
ΩΩΩ  
  
Daniel had showered and flopped on his cot. ‘It’s too hot to sleep,’ he realized as he watched a sand fly march across the ceiling. ‘What can I do to help Jack from here?’ he wondered again. ‘Not a damned thing.’  
  
Jackson sat up and rubbed his face. ‘I’ll find Teal’c,’ he thought. Then he pulled on a shirt and shorts and went to find the Jaffa.  
  
Teal’c was walking along the shore. The tide was going out, stranding seaweed and bits of shell on the wet sand.  
  
“Hey, Teal’c,” Daniel called out as he trotted down the dry dunes. “Wait up.”  
  
Teal’c stopped and turned. “Daniel Jackson,” he said, ‘you did not sleep?”  
  
“No. I’m too worried about Jack,” Daniel answered.  
  
“I told him to wear a life vest,” Teal’c stated.  
  
“Do you think it will happen?” Daniel asked.  
  
“O’Neill does not believe it,” Teal’c replied. “I do not know. The future is uncertain.”  
  
“What can we do to help, do you think?” Daniel asked.  
  
“O’Neill was concerned about Doctor Angstrom. He asked me to warn General Hammond about a possible security breach.” Teal’c said. “I believe we can best help by ensuring Doctor Angstrom is not a threat.”  
  
“Yeah,” Daniel agreed. “He’s been left in charge here for almost a week.”  
  
“Without supervision,” Teal’c added.  
  
“We’d better,” Daniel started.  
  
“Check the Triangle Project for possible sabotage.” Teal’c concluded.  
  
Daniel watched Sam walking far down the beach. She walked hand in hand with Zeek Angstrom. “And then we’d better remind Sam that Zeek might be a traitor,” he muttered.  
  
  
ΩΩΩ  
  
Sam had her shoes off. After a long flight in a cramped fighter, followed by a chopper ride, the wet, warm sand felt heavenly under her bare feet. A wave splashed up her calf, spraying her with cool droplets. Zeek was explaining progress on Triangle.  
  
“The core is connected and generating power. We’ve rigged a device to tie it into the BQs and to disconnect them when added power is not needed.”  
  
“Where does the power go now, Zeek?” Sam asked.  
  
“We’ve tied it into the island power grid,” Zeek explained. “If that doesn’t drain down enough power, we have the gravel operation. We move sand and gravel from one hole to another and then back again. It drains a lot of power without generating a telltale heat signature.”  
  
“Good,” Sam said. “Very good, and the trial runs went alright?”  
  
“Perfectly,” Zeek replied. “You’ve seen the data.”  
  
“Yeah, all by the numbers,” Sam said. “We’re all set then. There’s nothing left to do.”  
  
“Unless you want to tackle a couple dozen theoretical issues about how a power skin works, nope. Nothing at all,” Zeek answered.  
  
Sam sighed and said nothing. She’d hoped to lose herself in something impossible to solve, to put Jack out of her mind at least for a while. Now, Zeek was telling her she had nothing to worry about, nothing at all.  
  
“Damn,” she muttered. Then Zeek took her hand.  
  
“Sam?” he asked, pulling her to a stop.  
  
She looked up at him and said, “Yes?”  
  
“You are an extraordinary woman. Brilliant, brave, beautiful,” Zeek murmured, pulling her close.  
  
Sam put her hands against his chest and said, “All the B-words, but …”  
  
“Another B-word,” Zeek said as he released her. “You’re thinking about O’Neill. I know. It’s too soon, but Sam, he’s gone. He’s not coming back.”  
  
“You can’t know that!” she said turning away.  
  
“No,” Zeek answered, “but even if he does come back, somehow. The guy’s no good for you. He’s dangerous, self-destructive. He’s …”  
  
“Better than you can possibly know,” Sam snapped back. “I know you can’t understand. You haven’t worked him. You don’t really know him. Yes, he’s complicated, but he’s the man I love, Zeek. I’m sorry.”  
  
“If he’s gone?” Zeek asked. “Then what? Will you take the veil? Will you lock yourself away in a physics lab for the rest of your life?”  
  
“I don’t know,” Sam said. “All I know is that I believe Jack O’Neill will be back somehow.”  
  
Zeek put his hand on her back. “I just want you to know, when he doesn’t come back to you, Sam. I’m going to still be here, waiting.”  
  
‘Don’t bet on it,’ Sam thought. Then she said, “I’ve got to go,” and she jogged back down the beach toward Daniel and Teal’c. She didn’t want Zeek Angstrom to see her cry.  
  
  
ΩΩΩ  
  
Chen worked steadily all day. He finished the first thirty SGC staffers’ reviews, through the letter “P”, by lunchtime. If he worked late, he’d complete the review of all sixty security staff.  
  
At 13:30 he met with Sergeant Stone. He glanced at her hastily drafted progress report. “Anything?” he asked.  
  
“No, Major. Nothing yet,” she said. “I’m through the military staff and started checking the civilians at Triangle. So far no one comes up as anything but ordinary. At least ordinary for a bunch of eggheads.”  
  
Chen chuckled and said, “You’re right. These people live in a whole different world.”  
  
“Some live in more than one!” Stone joked, thinking, ‘If he only knew!’ She flashed back on how she’d met Zeek Angstrom. He’d approached her at a military function. He was a guest speaker. She was there for professional development.  
  
Angstrom had impressed her instantly. There weren’t many men who could make her feel petite. At 6 foot 2 inches, 145 pounds, Shirley Stone dwarfed most of the men she worked with. The others were usually big oafs.  
  
Angstrom was smart and he had a body she admired.  
  
They slept together the evening they met. Shirley fell head over heels for the young doctor of physics. She deflected his questions about her work, until he finally admitted he knew all about the SGC, from NID sources.  
  
Stone should have reported the interaction as a security breach, but it was too hard to feel alarm with Zeek’s mouth on her skin. Instead, she felt she’d finally found a soul mate, someone she could confide in about her triumphs and the important work she did deep under Cheyenne Mountain.  
  
Besides, Shirley was ambitious. Zeek’s connections could help her and in the dog-eat-dog world of military security. A girl needed all the pull she could get to advance.  
  
Shirley saw Zeek off and on for over three years before he ever asked her for anything. Then, at the start of the Triangle Project, he called and asked her for a small favor. He told her he had information on Triangle from his inside sources, but he didn’t trust them.  
  
Internal politics made it vital that someone he could trust confirm what he thought he knew about Triangle. He was working up a proposal to join the project. Her help could make all the difference.  
  
Shirley hadn’t hesitated. Triangle might offer her an excuse to spend time with him, in Bermuda with it’s warm nights and sun drenched days. Besides, it wasn’t like she was telling him anything he didn’t already know. No harm in that, Shirley reasoned.  
  
Over the three weeks of Triangle’s preoperational stage, the small favors had grown to bigger favors. She was not only confirming information, Shirley was supplying it as well. She kept Zeek informed on the meteoric fall from grace of Colonel O’Neill. Once she would have pitied O’Neill’s misfortune, but somehow Zeek’s jubilation was contagious.  
  
Now she sat across from Major Chen and tried not to smirk. She had the power to ruin him, if she chose to use it. She could feed him disinformation. She could lead him off the track. She could run him in circles. He would never suspect her, his star pupil. Stone tried not to laugh.  
  
Something in the Stars  
  
Walter had the night shift, again. ‘Not that anyone can tell thirty levels underground,’ he thought as he scanned the control room. All technicians seemed alert, busy doing their jobs.  
  
The SGC had been unusually tense, for no reason Walter could name. Sure, O’Neill’s disgrace had rocked everyone. Still, he’d gone over before, as part of missions. Most people believed this was another elaborate ruse.  
  
Also, SG-1 was off the base. That also tended to raise the heart rate. When SG-1 disappeared suddenly, odds were good that the planet was in danger.  
  
Still, there was something else, a whiff of intrigue. Walter saw it in the frequent meetings between General Hammond and Security Chief Chen. The security staff saw it, too. They all seemed unusually somber. Walter’s personal theory was that O’Neill was digging out a suspected problem with SGC security, and SG-1 was out there somewhere backing him up.  
  
Walter scanned his own array – the Deep Space Telemetry (DST). He blinked, gasped and hit the red button for SGC lockdown. “Unknowns,” he barked. “Three, five, twelve, thirteen, sixteen, at least twenty-five unknowns sighted on DST!”  
  
The alarms sounded. Walter knew Hammond was on his way to the control room.  
  
Walter glanced up from the screen. His staff was scrambling to adjust their equipment to verify the objects.  
  
Saterly barked out her data. “Verified, twenty-eight unknown craft on Earth vector!”  
  
“Identify,” Walter ordered as General Hammond entered the control room.  
  
“Don’t know. They’re big suckers!” Saterly squeaked, her voice cracking with excitement.  
  
Walter leaned over one counsel than turned to another. “General,” he said. “I’d say there are twenty-eight Goa’uld ships approaching Earth, Sir. Extrapolating from current speed and course, I’d estimate three days to contact.”  
  
“Three days?” Hammond said in disbelief. “Why so long? They usually just appear almost on top of us!”  
  
“Yes, Sir, that’s been their pattern in the past, General.” Walter glanced up at the General and shrugged, “I have no idea, Sir.”  
  
Hammond nodded. “Thank you, Sergeant. Good work. Keep tracking them. I want reports every fifteen minutes, if nothing changes. Contact me immediately if there is a change in course or speed.”  
  
Then Hammond leaned down to the PA microphone and announced, “Battle stations, this is not a drill. Repeat this is not a drill. All personnel to battle stations.”  
  
Walter watched the General turn and walk away. ‘Heading for the red phone,’ the Sergeant decided. Then he focused on directing his staff, as they tracked the incoming fleet of hostiles.  
  
  
ΩΩΩ  
  
General Hammond picked up the red phone and said, “I need to speak to the President, immediately.’  
  
A moment passed, before Hammond heard the President answer.  
  
“Mr. President,” Hammond began, “I have to report that a fleet of twenty-eight Goa’uld attack vessels are approaching Earth. They are currently in deep space. They will reach Earth orbit within three days, Sir. They have the capability to reach Earth orbit, immediately, if they choose to do so.”  
  
“What kind of attack vessels, General?” the President asked.  
  
“It’s unclear, Sir. From their size, I would say either Cheops Class warships, or Ha ‘Tak vessels,” Hammond answered.  
  
“The big ones, George,” the President stated.  
  
“Yes, Sir, the big ones,” Hammond confirmed.  
  
“Are we ready for them?”  
  
Hammond smiled and said, “Yes, Mr. President, we are. Project Triangle is completed. The tests showed 100 percent readiness. I have our best people on-site to oversee the operation.”  
  
“That’s just fine, George,” Bush said. “Good job. Is there anything else?”  
  
“Yes, Mr. President,” Hammond replied. “I’d like authorization for a back-up plan. Triangle has never been use in actual combat. The sites are not yet fully hardened and we have more ships coming at us than we’ve ever seen in one place, Mr. President.”  
  
“Back-up? That sounds like a good idea. Do it!” Bush snapped.  
  
“Would you like to know the details?” Hammond offered.  
  
“Not especially.” Bush admitted. “Are you going to tell me anyway?”  
  
“Yes, Mr. President. You see, we’ve had astounding success in the past by infiltrating Goa’uld ships. But, the man who has led these missions is unavailable,” Hammond explained.  
  
“Is he dead?” Bush asked.  
  
“No, Mr. President. Not yet. He’s …” Hammond hesitated.  
  
“Spill it General,” Bush snapped. “I’ve got a lot of allies to warn about what’s coming our way and a government to relocate to hardened sites.”  
  
“Yes, Sir. The man is in prison, Mr. President. If he’s not shot, he’ll probably spend the rest of his life in a mental ward.”  
  
“Nuts?” Bush asked.  
  
“Definitely not,” Hammond assured him.  
  
“Then, get him out. I hereby pardon him. What’s his name? I’ll have the necessary papers cut immediately,” Bush said.  
  
“Brigadier General Jack O’Neill, Mr. President.” Hammond said.  
  
“Right, see to it General. Tell O’Neill it’s his lucky day. The planet needs him,” Bush said and then the line went dead.  
  
Hammond sighed, remembering Gorlagon’s ancient eyes, and said, “Yes, Mr. President.”  
  
  
ΩΩΩ  
  
Sam Carter already knew about the threat when Hammond’s call came. The alarm system at the SGC fed directly into Triangle’s control room. She’d observed as Walter and his team tracked the incoming fleet.  
  
The phone rang and she answered, “Yes, General Hammond. This is Major Carter.”  
  
“Are you ready, Major?” Hammond asked.  
  
“I think so, General. Zeek completed Triangle installation. The numbers look perfect. I think we can say Triangle is ready to repel the incoming Goa’uld vessels,” Carter said.  
  
“Major, I want you to double and triple check the system,” Hammond said. “We don’t get a second try at this.”  
  
“Yes, General,” Carter agreed.  
  
“Keep me informed if anything develops,” Hammond said.  
  
“Yes, Sir,” Carter said and heard the General hang up.  
  
Sam called for Teal’c and Daniel. As she waited for them to join her, she sipped coffee and wondered. Twenty-eight ships, cruising slowly into Earth orbit. It was almost as it they were standing back and waiting. ‘For what?’ Carter wondered.  
  
She said it aloud as Teal’c and Daniel walked through the door. “What are they waiting for, Teal’c?” Sam said.  
  
“I do not know, Major Carter,” Teal’c replied.  
  
“It’s almost as if they know about Triangle,” Daniel said.  
  
“How could they?” Carter challenged him.  
  
“A spy?” Daniel said.  
  
Just then, Zeek Angstrom stepped into the room. “That’s a good guess, Doctor Jackson,” Zeek said. “In fact, they are waiting for my signal that Triangle is not operational.”  
  
“Crap!” Sam swore. “Jack was right about you!”  
  
“He was, Samantha,” Angstrom smiled as he said it. “He’s got good instincts about people. Too bad he’s such a basket case, you might have caught me.”  
  
Angstrom stepped closer and stroked Sam’s jaw with his thumb. “It’s not too late for you to change your alliances, Samantha. I want you. I can protect you. There is no way Earth can withstand the coming forces. Every Goa’uld you’ve ever encountered and a dozen you never heard of are heading this way. When I send word, they will pulverize this planet. You can die with the rest of them, or you can stand beside me. Choose.”  
  
Daniel picked that moment to charge toward Zeek, “No!” he shouted.  
  
Zeek spun around, eyes glowing and grabbed Daniel by the throat. “Daniel,” he growled. “I do not want to kill you, but I will.”  
  
Teal’c stepped forward and Angstrom turned, lifting his hand. He was wearing a ribbon device. It discharged and slammed Teal’c against the wall.  
  
Zeek turned back to smile at her. Daniel, still gripped by the throat in Angstrom's right hand, made an odd gurgling sound.  
  
Sam’s heart stopped. She still almost couldn’t believe it. Although she’d tried, she never really thought Zeek Angstrom was a spy. She’d put Jack’s worries down to simple jealousy. Now, Zeek stood before her, his eyes glowing softly and admitted it all with a loving smile.  
  
“Zeek,” Sam said. “I can’t tell you how sorry I am that I didn’t understand what you were offering me. Thank you for offering this second chance,” she said softly, stepping toward him. “Thank you, for this second chance.”  
  
Then she stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek. “Please, Zeek,” she whispered. “Let Daniel live.”  
  
  
ΩΩΩ  
  
Jack heard footsteps. It was his young guard, again. There was a familiar rap on his door and the adolescent voice, “General O’Neill? You awake, Sir?”  
  
Jack sat up. ‘Doesn’t this kid ever sleep?’ he wondered, wishing they hadn’t taken his watch, as well as his belt and shoelaces, away.  
  
He yawned and stretched, “Yeah, come on in.” He hadn’t been asleep, exactly, anyway. Jack hadn’t really slept since before the incident with the damned Yult. He stood as the door opened and pulled on his pants.  
  
When he straightened, Jack gasped. “General Hammond! How’d you get in here, Sir?”  
  
“Orders, Jack,” Hammond stated sadly. Then Hammond turned to the guard who was staring at Hammond like he had horns. “Leave us, please, Corporal.”  
  
The kid disappeared and Hammond continued. “Sit down, Jack. Sorry to wake you, but… I need your help.  
  
“Anything I can do, General,” Jack said joking. “I mean it. Anything I can do?” Obviously he was in no position to help anyone. Then, Jack looked at Hammond. He wasn’t smiling. There was an odd look on George’s face. Jack had seen that look before.  
  
“They’re here,” Jack said. “How many?”  
  
“Twenty-eight attack class ships. We aren’t sure of the exact class, but they’re big.”  
  
“They’ll pulverize us, unless Carter has Triangle up,” Jack said. “Tell me she does, George!”  
  
“Triangle has been out of contact for twenty minutes, Jack,” Hammond said softly. “It looks like you were right about Angstrom, but we were just too slow to react to your information. I’m sorry. I have a Presidential pardon here General O’Neill.”  
  
Jack had the strange sense that Hammond was speaking through a long tunnel. He saw his lips moving, heard the words and reacted to them, but the whole sequence seemed to happen in slow motion. ‘Sam’s out of contact. Angstrom’s … what? Goa’uld? Yult? NID?’  
  
“When do I go?” Jack snapped back at Hammond.  
  
“Now, Jack. But you are not going to the Triangle site. I’m sending you off world,” Hammond replied. “President’s orders.”  
  
“Right,” Jack said. “George, I have one request.”  
  
“Anything you need, Son,” Hammond said.  
  
“A life vest ... please.”  
  
  
ΩΩΩ  
  
An hour later, Hammond led Jack back into the SGC. O’Neill noticed people turning and staring as he jogged through the halls.  
  
Jack ignored the fuss and followed Hammond into the briefing room silently. A somber team was already assembled. Fifteen of the SGC’s best were waiting for him to lead them.  
  
Hammond ordered everyone to sit and quickly explained the plan. “These ships are approaching slowly. They are about 60 hours out, now. From their size, it’s a fair bet that they are equipped with Gates and rings. We need a way to get you on board one of the ships.”  
  
“We can’t Gate onto them, General,” one of the younger men stated flatly. The addresses will be identical when they enter Earth’s orbit.”  
  
“And until they stop their Gates are not operational,” another piped up.  
  
Jack glared around the room. ”This is not a debating society. There’s no time for this. General Hammond’s got a plan so shut up and listen!” Jack turned to Hammond, “General?”  
  
“Thank you,” Hammond smiled grimly. “You’ll Gate off world to P2X-339. It’s uninhabited with an operational gate. There you will wait for my signal that the ships have achieved Earth orbit. After sending the signal, I will close down and disconnect our Gate. It will no longer be operational. That will make the orbiting Gates the only Star Gates accessible at this dialing address.”  
  
O’Neill looked around the room and said, “See? Now wasn’t that worth the wait?”  
  
A few of the nervous warriors cracked smiles at that and Hammond laughed lightly. “Thank you, General O’Neill.”  
  
Fifteen minutes later, Jack O’Neill stood at the base of the Gate. It rumbled, sliding into place as each chevron locked in sequence. O’Neill didn’t look at the fifteen men clustered behind him. He knew several of them already. The others, he’d glanced at their files. He was responsible for them and he knew, for absolutely certain, he was leading them to their deaths. As a slim precaution, he’d ordered everyone to don life vests. He felt the reassuring pressure of his under his flak vest. ‘Just in case,’ he’d told them.  
  
The final chevron locked and the Gate spewed blue plasma toward him. ‘God that’s beautiful,’ O’Neill thought, just as he did each time he watched the miracle. Sam could explain it all she wanted. To Jack O’Neill it was miraculous, nothing less. Unlike other times, Jack didn’t smile. There was nothing to smile about this time. He knew this was his last mission. He didn’t want to die. He had to go. He had no choice.  
  
When Teal’c came to see him, he’d carried Daniel’s message. ‘Wear a life vest.’ Teal’c had also carried a letter from Sam. Jack hadn’t read it. He didn’t trust himself to read it now. Instead, he carried it, inside a zip-locked baggy, in an inside shirt pocket. If he survived, somehow, he’d read the letter afterwards, when it was too late to turn back.  
  
Jack stared at the event horizon. Men stepped around him and walked into the shimmering blue. He followed, stopped and turned at the top of the ramp. General Hammond stood in the windows, watching. Jack raised a hand and turned. Then he stepped through.  
  
  
ΩΩΩ  
  
The vortex took him. He was flung through frozen space. Light spun past, like a ghastly hallucinogenic trip. It all seemed routine.  
  
O’Neill emerged into warm dampness in the half-glow of a twilight world. He’d arrived on P2X-399, just as planned.  
  
He walked down slick, slime covered steps. The rest of the team had assembled in the amethyst half-glow.  
  
“Rodgers, set up the radio receiver,” O’Neill barked. Then he walked a short distance away and pulled out Sam’s letter.  
  
Jack squatted, leaned against the trunk of a giant fern and trained his pen light on the envelope. It said ‘Jack’ on the outside in Carter’s cramped handwriting. He tore open the flap and opened the single page.  
  
“Jack,” it began. “I don’t understand what’s happening, why you won’t see me. I know you love me, and I trust you. Daniel has told me everything that he learned from Gorlagon. How you will leave and not come back; how I am not supposed to wait for you.  
  
I need you to know that I am not going to lose you. No matter what happens, I will find you and bring you home. Remember we don’t leave our people behind.  
  
You know that Janet told me I could never have children. It turns out that she is wrong. Thank god for that. Take care of yourself, until I find you,  
  
Yours always,  
  
Samantha  
  
PS You arrive in sometime in 495. I will meet you at the Monastery at midnight on December 31st, the last day of 496 A.D.”  
  
A moment later, Jack heard someone calling him. “General, we’ve got a ‘go’, Sir.” He stood and stuffed the letter back into its baggy, sealed it carefully and slipped it into his shirt.  
  
“Right, dial up Earth,” he barked and watched as someone entered the coordinates into the DHD. A moment later, locked and loaded, he led the team through the Gate.  
  
  
ΩΩΩ  
  
Sam let Zeek hold her. As he fondled her, she smiled, drawing on her memories from Jolinar for guidance. “Yes,” she murmured as he groped her, “ah, yes.”  
  
To her shock, her body responded to him. She felt an eager thrill as he brushed his lips along her neck. She pressed up against him. Zeek moaned with pleasure. Even as she let herself go, Sam was thinking fiercely, ‘How do I free Teal’c and Daniel? If I can, we might still have time to take back the site and activate Triangle.‘  
  
She shuddered as Zeek responded to her touch. He misinterpreted her trembling as excitement and increased the intensity of his lovemaking. Part of her responded hungrily, but Sam’s heart was like cold steel as he opened her shirt and slipped his hands inside her uniform.  
  
She pulled back, gasping and tried to smile. His eyes burned softly golden. In his brown face, they were almost beautiful.  
  
“Samantha,” he growled. “Let me please you.” He reached for her, but she stepped back, trying to smile.  
  
“No, Zeek,” she improvised. “You’ve waited so long for this. Let me, please.” She lifted her hands to his chest, suggestively, “please.” He smiled and closed his eyes.  
  
“Yes, my love,” he groaned as she leaned close and let her lips play across his chest.  
  
She remembered Jack as she worked. ‘God, how he’d teased her, held her and …’  
  
Sam realized she had a chance. “Zeek,” she hissed, “lie down.” He smiled and lowered himself to the bed. She forced herself to go slow, teasing him until he groaned with pleasure.  
  
When he reached for her, again, she said, “No. Not yet.”  
  
“Ah,” he smiled. “A woman in charge.”  
  
She forced his hand back on the bed and turned away, whispering, “The rules are that, as long as you don’t touch me, I will continue to do this.” She unzipped his pants and slipped her hand inside. “And, this,” she felt him shudder as she lowered her mouth and breathed on him.  
  
He reached for her and she pulled back. “No, not yet.”  
  
He sighed and closed his eyes and let her explore, as he gasped and trembled with pleasure. Sam carefully worked his clothing back, scooting his field pants around his ankles and slipping the belt around the bed post. She worked the shirt around his wrists, while she distracted him with her tongue against his beautiful chest. Then she stood and slowly pulled off her own shirt and undid her waistband.  
  
“Please, Sam,” he growled. “You’re killing me,” as she slipped her slacks down and straddled his chest.  
  
He tried to reach for her, realized his hands were entangled in his shirt, then, and his clothing had been bound to the bed.  
  
“What?” Zeek gasped in surprise. He tried to sit up. He realized then that his ankles were bound to the bedposts and something held them there.  
  
“What!” he roared. “Are you crazy? I am your only protection!” His eyes glowed, as he thrashed against the bed.  
Sam slipped off him and swiftly pulled on her shirt and slacks. The bed threatened to break as Zeek thrashed and cursed her.  
  
Sam walked across the room to the telephone and pulled it free, jerking the phone cord from the socket. She turned back to the bed, raised the heavy 1940s style phone and swung it down hard against Zeek’s head. He moaned, but moved. So she struck him again, harder.  
  
Zeek stopped moving. Sam quickly hog-tied him with the phone cord and then sprinted across the compound to free the others.  
  
  
ΩΩΩ  
  
General Hammond stood, unable to act, while the fleet materialized over the planet. Ships had positioned themselves over every major city on the North American continent. It seemed clear they would open fire at any moment. To Hammond’s surprise, none of the ships were over the Triangle coordinates, or any of the locations of the BQ devices.  
  
Triangle had been out of contact for almost three hours. The SG force led by O’Neill was out of touch, too, of course. Hammond had nothing to do but wait. It was the thing he hated most about his job – waiting.  
  
Suddenly, the wait was over. One of the ships had veered off course and swung strangely toward the others nearby.  
  
“O’Neill made it aboard,” Hammond muttered to Sergeant Walters, who smiled and nodded.  
  
“Yes, Sir,” Walters replied. “That looks like his style.”  
  
  
ΩΩΩ  
  
In fact, Jack O’Neill was not at the controls of the Cheops class vessel. No one was.  
  
Jack crouched behind a pillar as a wave of fire burst around him. Three of his team were down, probably dead from the look of them. Another couple were screaming in pain and crawling for cover.  
  
One was not moving fast enough. Jaffa opened fire and caught her in the back, before she could reach the pillars. “Shit,” O’Neil swore as he saw her die. “Shit!”  
  
He bolted for the other side of the corridor. The ship was shuddering in a familiar, very disconcerting way. It reminded him of the time he rode Thor’s ship down to crash in the Pacific Ocean. He didn’t want to repeat that experience.  
  
“Anders, Johnson, with me!” he barked as he ran in a crouch toward the control room. He heard more heavy fire behind him and saw Anders fall like a rag doll. Johnson kept coming.  
  
“Cover me,” O’Neill barked as he sprinted down the hall. Johnson obeyed, her shots coming uncomfortably close. She picked off three Jaffa and then nailed two more before O’Neill reached cover. He hunkered down and turned to watch her six as she followed him.  
  
“Good job,” he gasped as she fell almost on top of him.  
  
“Thank you, Sir,” she smiled back. She had a lot of schmutz on her face and brilliant blue eyes. With her hat pulled low, she looked like Carter.  
  
Jack swallowed and growled. “Stay put. I need you here to cover my retreat. If I don’t make it back in three minutes, grab the others and get back to planet slime ball. Okay?”  
  
“Yes, Sir,” she smiled.  
  
Jack sprinted under another rain of fire from Jaffa protecting the control room. As he charged into their fire, he saw the control room door begin to slide. The Jaffa were trying to seal out the attackers.  
  
Jack lunged and slid across the slippery floor. The door was coming down, but he rolled under it, and sprayed the room with his P-90 as he rolled.  
  
Several shots hit Jaffa. Others ricocheted off the control panels. The Jaffa panicked. With nowhere to run, they turned back into Jack’s fire and died.  
  
Jack was suddenly alone, sealed in with the controls and a dozen dead Jaffa.  
  
“Alright,” he hissed, “Nothing like a little firepower.”  
  
He operated the Cheop controls deftly thanks to Teal’c’s patient coaching. He lined up the ship’s firing array with six of the nearest vessels and let her rip.  
  
Deep in SGC, Hammond laughed aloud as Goa’uld ships disappeared over Vancouver, Seattle, Los Angeles, San Diego, Las Vegas and the Twin Cities.  
  
As they disintegrated, Jack gunned his ship forward, looking for more targets behind the planet. Heading East, he found them over Montreal, New York, Boston, Atlanta and Miami. He locked on the three most northerly ships and fired. They crashed into the planet below. Three fireballs plunged into the North Atlantic. Then Jack turned his weapons South.  
  
  
ΩΩΩ  
  
On the planet below, Sam freed Teal’c and Daniel. She sprinted for the control shack.  
  
“Major Carter,” Teal’c warned, as he followed. “Be careful.”  
  
“There’s no time, Teal’c,” she answered as she belly-flopped beside a stack of empty crates.  
  
Teal’c didn’t speak. Using hand signals, he conveyed his intention to take the shack from behind. Then, he moved off to the left, circling the control shack.  
  
Carter watched him go and opened fire on the shack as a diversion.  
  
Daniel slid into the dirt beside her. “Teal’c?” he asked.  
  
“Around back,” Carter said. She slammed another clip into her M-16. She leaned around the crates and fired a series of rapid single shots.  
  
A fierce burst of fire returned from the shack. It tore through the crates.  
  
“Crap!” Daniel exclaimed, crouching low.  
  
“Stay here and cover me,” Carter ordered and crawled forward on her elbows. She moved quickly. Daniel fired over her head into the shack. Splinters of wood flew as his bullets tore through its rickety wooden walls.  
  
When Carter advanced far enough, she was too close for those inside to aim at her through the windows. Daniel stopped firing. Shots still whistled over her head. Sam knew they were harmless. She advanced in a crouch to the wall and waited for Teal’c’s signal.  
  
A long moment passed.  
  
‘C’mon, Teal’c,’ she thought. ‘There’s no time.’ Then she heard wood splinter and the sounds of a struggle. Sam threw herself against the wooden door. It crashed down. She fell into the room. Teal’c had already subdued all but one of the defenders. Sam stood and faced the man.  
  
“Put it down,” she said. “Now.”  
  
The man dropped his weapon. Teal’c shoved him into the corner with the rest of the battered traitors.  
  
Daniel stuck his head in the door. “Now what?” he asked.  
  
“Check the system for booby-traps,” Carter ordered. “Help him, Teal’c.”  
  
Other SGC staff appeared and took control of the prisoners.  
  
“Lock them in the meat locker,” Sam snapped as she slid into her seat at the Triangle control panel.  
  
Dozens of SGC staff slipped into the shack. They stood in a silent, somber crowd, watching the SGC feed. Without Triangle, everyone expected massive destruction.  
  
Suddenly, they were cheering. Sam looked up from her work. On screen, she saw one of the ships, a Cheops class attack vessel, firing on the others.  
  
It was a real turkey shoot. Another three ships blinked out on the screen. The Cheops swung around to take on four more. People whooped and hugged each other.  
  
“Bring it on-line,” Sam shouted over the cheers. No one moved.  
  
“Hey, a little help here!” she barked, grinning despite herself. Technicians slipped into chairs and settled down to their jobs.  
  
  
ΩΩΩ  
  
Overhead, Jack felt the ship rock under his feet. “Crap,” he cursed, eyes growing wide, as all remaining Goa’uld ships turned on him.  
  
The Goa’uld opened fire. The Cheops vessel sawed beneath him. Jack was thrown to his knees.  
  
Jack keyed his mike. “Time to go. Get out of here,” he ordered the SGC forces. “Pull out, pull out, pull out!”  
  
  
ΩΩΩ  
  
“How much longer Major?” Hammond’s voice came through Sam’s headset.  
  
“Triangle powered up and fully operational in 3... 2... 1... Systems are go, General,” Sam replied.  
  
  
ΩΩΩ  
  
Above, O’Neill scrambled up the control room floor, towards a locked door. The ship bucked wildly. The control room broke apart. Jack threw himself against the closest wall. The floor disintegrated. A force field flickered into place, holding back the vacuum of space.  
  
Balanced on a slim ledge, Jack pawed madly at the walls surrounding the door, searching for the symbol that hid the key to the door. Between his feet, he could see Earth. It was growing rapidly larger. They were going down.  
  
  
ΩΩΩ  
  
Hammond watched the symbol of the Cheops vessel that had fired on the other Goa’uld. It careened across the screen. It was taking a beating. There was no sign of it fighting back.  
  
Hammond thought a quick prayer for the SGC warriors aboard that ship. “Major Carter. Open fire,” Hammond ordered.  
  
  
ΩΩΩ  
  
Jack knew he’d run out of time. Then, suddenly, the wall gave way. “Screw it, who needs a door,” he muttered as he scrambled through a cloud of dust, smoke and falling debris. He sprinted for the ship’s Gate room, collecting SGC warriors as he ran.  
  
“Johnson, move out,” he called as he approached her. She was frozen in place, firing savagely down the hall behind him. O’Neill slowed, reached down and snagged the handle of her flack vest, “C’mon!” he roared.  
  
Johnson blinked, scrambled to her feet and followed. The ship rocked again. Explosions filled the halls with flying debris.  
  
  
ΩΩΩ  
  
“Roger, that, General Hammond,” Sam responded, “Triangle opening fire.” She depressed the first button.  
  
  
ΩΩΩ  
  
O’Neill saw three marines ahead. “Move, move, move!” he shouted. They sprang to their feet and fled for the Gate, just a step ahead of him. A moment later, Jack careened into the Gate room. The Gate was active. The marines flung themselves through. Johnson followed, heading back to P2X-339 and safety.  
  
  
ΩΩΩ  
  
Sam held her breath. The readings showed plasma building within the weapon system. The island shuddered violently as the stream returned from the final BQ. She knew a stream of liquid energy screamed for release from Triangle’s maw. An instant later, she pushed the second button. Triangle discharged a white-hot pulse of pure energy.  
  
  
ΩΩΩ  
  
Jack felt the floor giving way. He pressed his hand to his heart. Sam’s letter crinkled under his palm. Then he leapt.  
  
Suddenly, inexplicably, the sparkling blue vortex turned scarlet. Jack was in a blood red pool, but it was too late to turn back. The ship was gone. The vortex had him.  
  
  
ΩΩΩ  
  
Triangle belched a massive discharge of plasma. A wave of fire encircled Earth. It caught twenty Goa’uld ships, turning them instantly to ash.  
  
Along with the Goa’uld fleet, Triangle incinerated every weather, spy and communications satellite in near-Earth orbit. The international space station was gone. So was forty years of accumulated space debris.  
  
All satellite-based communication ceased on Earth. Forewarned, the U.S. military and its allies had Hamm radio sets and telegraph equipment in place to maintain essential military communications. The civilian world was temporarily in chaos, but the planet was safe.  
  
The United Nations stepped in, purportedly to prevent world-domination by NATO nations. The UN instituted worldwide martial law. This occurred after only 30-minutes of negotiations with the NATO nations.  
  
In truth, the political heads of the NATO alliance had no real choice. So-called third-world nations had suffered far less disruption than the industrialized world. NATO leaders, politicians all, feared their less privileged neighbors, and their official enemies, but they feared them somewhat less than they feared their own military.  
  
Newspapers, the only reliable form of civilian communication, reported the cause of the disaster as a massive solar flare.  
  
Sam Carter knew better.  
  



	5. Part 5 - Time Crossed

  
Author's notes: Legends of the Lost (& Found)  


* * *

  
**Time Crossed**

  
  


  
_The man who stands at a strange threshold,  
Should be cautious before he cross it,  
Glance this way and that:  
Who knows beforehand what foes may sit  
Awaiting him in the hall?_  
  
Stanza 1: Hávamál, The Sayings of Hár

 

_**Chapter 1. A Piece of Our Leg** _

“Aw crap,” Jack choked just as a wave crashed over him. It dragged him under. He fought for the surface, but barely got his head above water before the next struck.

When the crippled Cheops class warship had disintegrated around him, Jack O’Neill threw himself through the ship’s Gate and prayed he’d make it. The vortex had grabbed him. Everything seemed normal, until suddenly, the aqua blue wormhole had turned blood red.

‘This is not good,’ Jack thought an instant before he rematerialized underwater. Jack reached the surface and emerged into the worst honking storm he’d ever seen.

Now, enormous waves rose and fell around him. He inhaled salt water with every breath. He was lost at sea. Gorlagon’s prophecy had come true.

Jack had a life vest. Daniel had insisted he wear it as a precaution. Unfortunately his flack vest and web gear, worn on the outside, made it impossible to inflate the damned thing.

Another wave hit. Jack tumbled for what felt like an eternity. When his head broke the surface, he gulped a lungful of air, tried not to inhale the seawater that came with it and swam like hell.

It was a losing battle. He knew it. The water was too cold. His field uniform and boots were too heavy and now they were waterlogged. He’d lost his P-90, but he still carried C-4, grenades, his 9-millimeter and a lot of ammo in his web gear.

It was too damned heavy. He’d drown, if he didn’t drop all of it fast. Jack fumbled for a moment with the zippers and clasps. No go. His hands were already too numb with cold.

He groped for his K-Bar and closed his numb fingers on the thick grip. The next wave hit. He jerked the blade out of its sheath and stuck it back under his arm. He sliced blindly as he swirled between the surface and the depths.

Another wave struck and he felt the webbing give way. He flailed hard for the surface. When he burst through, his web gear and flack vest were gone. So were his knife, ammo and pistol, but at the moment Jack didn’t care.

He could finally inflate the life vest. He was shaking too hard to blow it up manually. So, he groped for the cord to the CO2 cylinder, found it, jerked down and the vest filled with gas.

It lifted him like a cork. Finally, his chin was above water. A large wave hit, but he resurfaced almost immediately.

Thank you Daniel,’ he thought fervently. ‘Now I won’t drown.’ It was a moment before the realization struck.

‘So, guess I’ll freeze to death, instead.’

ΩΩΩ  
  
Thor, the Asguard commander tasked with patrolling the Sector under the Protected Planet Treaty, leaned back in his chair. Scenes flashed before him on a wide screen across one of the walls. Thor scanned them for signs of Goa’uld activity.

He was bored. There had been no Goa’uld activity on the planet below for many hundreds of years. In fact, the entire Sector hadn’t seen action in ages.

The screen filled with an empty plaza in a sun-drenched desert town. Then the scene blurred and changed.

A twilight forest appeared. Several fur-clad figures huddled around a blazing fire. The scene held for a moment, then blurred again.

It stabilized next on a moonlit sea. Pewter waves streamed across a wildly bounding sea for a moment or two, before that scene vanished. Next, a brooding ziggurat stood darkly amidst a jungle’s tangle.

A light blinked on his control panel. Thor blinked back at it, thinking, ‘This has not happened in a very long time.’ He reached a spindly arm out to grasp one of several smooth, beetle-shaped stones. He slid the stone across the panel. The ziggurat blurred. The thrashing waves reappeared.

Thor moved a second stone and the scene became more detailed. In the previously empty sea, a body appeared. The waves tossed it as they rose and fell. It was a human body, but it was unlike any indigenous human that Thor had seen.

It wore a life vest.

Thor touched the third stone. “Perhaps it is Goa’uld,” he murmured.

The transporter activated, registering as a brief, bright flash on the sea scene. An instant later, the body appeared. The human lay in a crumpled heap on the floor at the center of a rapidly spreading puddle of seawater.

Thor leaned forward. He peered closely. The body didn’t move and, Thor noted, the puddle was tinged with blood.  
  
ΩΩΩ  
  
Jack opened one eye. Everything hurt. He moaned, but no sound came out. He opened the other eye, but still couldn’t see anything. A white glare blinded him. The shrill scream of a drill pierced his skull. Something nasty was happening just beyond his grasp.

It was familiar. It felt like he’d been here before. Was it a memory? Maybe it was just a scene from some episode of the X-files (or was it the Simpson’s)?

‘Guess I’m bein’ probed,’ he thought hazily. ‘That or I’m at the dentist! Aw, crap.’

Then a familiar face hovered between him and the light.

“Thor! Buddy!” Jack rasped. “Geez! You scared the hell out of me. What’s with the drill?”

The shiny black eyes blinked.  
  
“Facies meus?” Thor quavered, “recognosco?” [‘Do you know me?’]  
  
“Thor! It’s me!” Jack answered. “Dammit, what’s with the Latin? You think I’ve got a clue what you’re saying?”  
  
“Hágalo me sabe?” Thor tried a different tongue. The human became even more agitated, babbling louder.  
  
Thor switched to a new dialect, similar in cadence, “Gjør De vet meg?” Then he tried another, “U doe mij weet?”  
  
“Thor!” the man roared. “Knock it off! Will ya?”  
  
Thor paused. He stared at the startling human. The man was struggling on his exam table, bleeding, growling and repeating his name, between unrecognizable spates of ever more hostile babbling.  
  
If the human was speaking a language, Thor didn’t recognize it. ‘Strange,’ he thought. As the Asguard’s leading expert on Earth, it’s sentient life forms, their rudimentary languages and elaborate customs, Thor knew thousands of dialects of Earth’s indigenous human beings. He’d never heard this language.  
  
The human struggled harder against his restraints. Thor was confident they would hold, even against such a large adult male. He did not, however, wish to cause the creature any more anguish than necessary.  
  
The brilliant hue of the man’s face and rising volume of his babbling indicated one of two things: either fury or abject panic. Allowing the poor creature to endure either was inhumane.  
  
Thor passed his hand across Jack’s face. O’Neill’s eyes fluttered and closed. He was asleep.  
  
“Clearly, you are a human,” Thor spoke to the unconscious man. “You seem to have spoken my name. Were you praying, perhaps? You are not Goa’uld, but you are unlike any human I have encountered on this planet. You are an enigma, a mystery.”  
  
Thor had already examined the man while he repaired his wound. He’d found him well nourished, free of parasites and disease common in the indigenous populations. That alone was remarkable. More surprising, the male was very old, at least 45 years Thor estimated. Yet, the teeth were sound. Several showed signs of repairs. They’d been hollowed out and an amalgam of ceramic or metal had been implanted. Deeper in each, Thor had found the alarming presence of mercury, a deadly poison to humans.  
  
‘Amazing,’ he’d mused, wondering whether this creature was far advanced or strangely primitive. He appeared to be both. His body, for example, showed repeated incidents of violence: broken bones that were well healed, scars of a wide variety, some from cutting instruments others of an unknown variety. There had also been internal damage quite recently, but it had been healed.  
  
‘Possibly by a sarcophagus,’ Thor noted with a shudder. ‘Possibly by Goa’uld.’  
  
The body was only the start of the mysteries. The man’s clothing was unlike any Thor had seen on Earth. He wore heavy cotton. It was not the silky long-fiber cotton favored by the Goa’uld. It was short fibered, rough and dyed a hideous green, indicating the man was a forest-creature. Besides the tough cotton, he wore several synthetic fibers. All were petroleum-based materials. His belt was of one sort, the waistband of his undergarments contained another and blended with the wool of his foot garments, there was still another.  
  
Bits of synthetic material adorned his garments, as well. Some were fuzzy and appeared to marry to other, snaggle-toothed, pieces very like the burdocks that plagued the hairy beasts of the planet, insinuating themselves into the long guard hairs of horses, cattle, dogs and, yes, humans. These bits were constructed, however, not natural, and appeared to provide a flexible, ingenious system of closures. Then, right beside this odd system, were buckles and buttons almost identical to those used by indigenous humans far below.

In a few places, tiny bits of metal aligned in perfect rows. They were capable of locking together, or unlocking, by the motion of a tiny, ingenious guide with a tiny pull. These made a pleasant zipping sound as Thor experimented with the closure.  
  
‘Zip,’ the front of the man’s jacket was open. ‘Zip,’ it was neatly closed. ‘Zip,’ it was open again.  
  
“Ingenious,” Thor murmured again as he tugged at the sleeve of the man’s jacket.  
  
Thor pulled the man’s arm out of his sleeve. Although the clothes themselves were heavy and rugged, the stitching was as fine as any Thor had seen on the planet. Not even the people of China, probably the most advanced society on the planet, could match the even, tight stitching of these work clothes. Machines might have stitched them. The stitches were that regular.  
  
Thor unbuttoned the shirt, only to find yet another layer of clothing beneath. He sighed impatiently as he slipped the garments over the man’s head. Then he saw something else surprising. The man carried what seemed to be a sacred object, a sort of totem. Cramped writing covered a thin sheet of wood fiber, decorated with regular pale blue rectangles. Like the natives from the planet below, the man carried it against his skin, over his heart. Unlike the indigenous humans of Earth, his pouch was derived from petrochemicals. The material of the pouch was transparent, flexible, light and quite durable. It, too, had an odd system of closure.  
  
Thor peered at the totem for a moment. It seemed to be covered with runes, although they were none he recognized. Thor set it aside with the other items he’d removed as he’d undressed the man.  
  
“Who are you?” Thor murmured pensively as he turned back to the human. Of course the man did not answer. Even if he had, Thor grasped only one bit of all he’d babbled in his odd, alien tongue. He’d said ‘Thor’ repeatedly. It hadn’t sounded like praying, especially toward the end. More like cursing, actually.  
  
Faced with a growing mystery, Thor turned to his ship for assistance. The Asguard worked with life forms across the galaxy and beyond. Perhaps a brain scan would provide data for the computer to match something in the extensive Asguard collection. The scan should have taken only a millisecond. Thor waited as the computer signaled that it was still processing, still processing, still processing.  
  
‘Why,’ he wondered, ‘is this taking so long? This is taking almost as long as it would with one of my own kind.’ Minutes ticked by as Thor watched the scanner proceed. Then symbols flashed, telling him the scan was complete.  
  
‘At last,’ he turned to the results. They were not what he’d expected, not at all. Deep within the subject’s neural pathways, the computer found a match. The knowledge itself was gone, but the imprint lingered. Thor could tell that it had been a massive amount of information. The erasure was not accidental, that much was clear. It was purposeful and almost complete, but not quite.  
  
“I will contact the Council,” he murmured aloud in his excitement. “This is not possible, yet it is true. This creature has carried the knowledge of the Ancients.”  
  
The Ancients had pre-dated his own existence by millennia. The alliance had been formed so long ago that the Asguard retained little information on the race that once stood beside them in battles against threats to the peace and predictability of the sentient universe.  
  
As he gazed at the inordinately tall male, Thor wondered if it were possible that some of the Ancients had survived, somewhere. Was this creature one of them?  
  
‘If so,’ he wondered, ‘why would his people erase his knowledge? Could he have been banished? Could he be a criminal?’  
  
Thor checked the restraints. The man was asleep and he would remain asleep until Thor decided what to do with him. Still, the Asguard verified that the huge creature was well restrained. Thor had vast experience with human beings and knew the race had a knack for unpredictability.  
  
ΩΩΩ  
  
“You have a report?” the Asguard High Council head, Carnac, queried.  
  
“I do,” Thor replied.  
  
“Proceed,” came a voice.  
  
“During my regular patrol of Earth, I detected technology far beyond current norms,” Thor began. “I focused on the source, saw a human body wearing a floatation device and immediately brought the human aboard for closer inspection.”  
  
“Goa’uld?” Carnac asked tremulously.  
  
“No. There are no signs of a Goa’uld parasite,” Thor answered. “There are recently healed injuries, however, that may have been repaired by a Goa’uld healing device.”  
  
“Is that all?” Carnac prompted.  
  
“Hardly,” Thor laughed. “I conducted a level one investigation. The human was alive, injured slightly. I mended his injury and restrained him for a level two check.”  
  
“Why level two?”  
  
“Many reasons: The human is old, well past the normal life span of Earth’s humans. Yet he is strong and healthy. His teeth have been damaged and repaired by a most unusual technology. It is far beyond the skill of indigenous humans. His clothing is also far advanced. His dress is the garb of a warrior race. It has receptacles for a knife and for what must have been other utensils of war. His body shows many signs of battle. Yet, he is not crippled, not even at his advanced age.”  
  
“Luck?” a second Council member asked.  
  
“Perhaps,” Thor admitted, “except level two analysis offered still more mysteries, mysteries that are not explained by mere happenstance.”  
  
“Oh?” several voices asked together.  
  
“His mind carries the deepest mystery. It shows traces of Ancient knowledge,” Thor stated firmly. “This human once possessed the knowledge of the Ancients. This has been verified by my ship’s computer, even though the knowledge itself has been removed.”  
  
“Ahhh,” came the soft exclamation.  
  
Thor smiled inside, but he waited respectfully.  
  
“What do you recommend?” Carnac asked.  
  
“I am at your service,” Thor answered, deftly sidestepping the risk to his reputation.  
  
“Wise, very wise,” another council member chuckled.  
  
Carnac called for silence. “We will direct you after the Council reaches its decision,” he stated solemnly.  
  
A slight echoing filled Thor’s ship as the Council conferred. He waited, wondering what solution would come forth.  
  
“Release the human,” Carnac said solemnly. “Immediately.”  
  
Thor gasped. If his onyx eyes could have been wider, they would have widened in surprise at this pronouncement.  
  
“Release him?” he repeated. “The strange human I captured?” Thor needed to be sure he’d heard the order correctly. It seemed unlikely.  
  
“Immediately,” came the answer.  
  
“I am at your service,” Thor said automatically. Then he hesitated. “May I make a suggestion?”  
  
“A suggestion?” Carnac sounded surprised.  
  
A slight buzzing filled the ship as the Council conferred. Thor’s head was spinning. He’d never debated the Council. It simply wasn’t done. He hadn’t intended to speak, not really, but somehow the unorthodox request had just popped out.  
  
‘Surely, my request will be denied,’ he decided as the Council continued to hum over his unprecedented appeal.  
  
“Make your suggestion,” the second Council head stated.  
  
Thor froze. He had no suggestion, not really. He opened his mouth and spoke. He was as surprised as the Council at what emerged.  
  
“This human is an enigma. He is the closest thing we have ever found to the Ancients, our greatest and truest allies. He is not from this planet, that much is clear. If I release him on the surface below, he will perish as surely as a wild lily from Earth would perish if we transplanted it on Oralon without protection.”  
  
Thor paused, as much from shock as anything. Then, he suddenly seemed to have more to say, so he continued.  
  
“My suggestion is that I provide this human, this mysterious human, this living link to our past, with at least basic essentials to survive.”  
  
The Council’s buzzing was echoing though the ship as he spoke. Thor forged on, unsure why it seemed to matter so much to him.  
  
“And that I install a small transmitter that I have developed for the study of wildlife to follow his travels and ensure his well-being.” Thor stopped talking. He seemed to be finished. He waited.  
  
The buzzing echoed for another moment or two. Then it stopped abruptly.  
  
“You are wise, Thor,” Carnac stated. “Your suggestion has been considered and it is approved. Proceed.”  
  
A moment later the Council broke contact and Thor of Asguard was alone with his research subject. Thor stared at the unconscious man, for a moment. Then he began to prepare the subject. He worked quickly, but with great care. After all, the subject was the Asguard’s missing link to the Ancients. He might even be their hope for the future.  
  
ΩΩΩ  
  
Jack blinked. He was staring up into brilliant light again, but this time it was sunlight. He seemed to recall Thor gazing down at him, backlit by another too bright light. Before that it was a jumble of waves and… ‘Oh, yeah,’ he remembered, ‘a firefight.’ Had he been dreaming?  
  
O’Neill groaned, rubbed his head, and tried to sit up. Then he froze. A knife-edge pressed against his throat. It felt like a very sharp knife. A large, dark form abruptly blocked the sun and a deep voice growled.  
  
“Move outlander and die.”  
  
‘Okay, that was not English,’ a tiny part of Jack’s mind protested. Jack stared up. A craggy face glared down.  
  
The face was the color of burnished bronze, but the eyes were brilliant blue. Thick, curling beard and a jumble of chestnut, shoulder-length hair surrounded the cruel face. Behind his mustache, sneered strong white teeth. The man looked like an extra from a very bad movie about the bad old days.  
  
‘Very bad,’ Jack decided as he gazed into those ice blue eyes. The razor-sharp blade pressed harder against his windpipe.  
  
Jack didn’t move an eyelash, but he could see the man was armed to the teeth. He had a scabbard on a wide leather strap that crossed his chest, empty at the moment. A second belt around his waist carried a short sword. Jack could just see the thickly decorated hilt glinting in the sun. The man was dressed in a filthy tunic of woven fabric that stopped well short of the man’s knees.  
  
‘Dirty, scarred knees,’ Jack noted. He could barely miss them, since they were almost in his face as the man loomed over him. The unsightly knees splayed apart as Jack’s captor leaned forward, spewing fusty breath in his face.  
  
“I am Captain of this craft,” he rumbled. “I pulled you from the sea and I can throw you back there anytime I choose. Understand! You give me trouble, stranger, and by Thor’s mighty red beard, nothing will save you. Nothing! I’ll toss you back over the side before you can beg.”  
  
The honed edge pressed a shade harder against his throat. Jack glared up at the belligerent captain and thought, ‘Thor doesn’t have a beard.’ Jack kept his mouth shut, however, as the edge pressed against his Adam’s apple.  
  
Jack kept his chin up. He had no choice, but his eyes flicked down, meekly. A third knife -- a wicked long-bladed dagger – was nestled in a leather sheath strapped to the man’s thickly muscled left calf. The ankle scabbard was within reach. Jack toyed with the possibility, but when he raised his eyes, he saw a mocking smile the blue eyes. The captain was just waiting for him to try it. Jack knew he’d be dead before his fingers ever touched the grip.  
  
Jack dropped his eyes again. ‘Dumb to get my throat cut just because Asguard are bald,’ he grumbled, ‘too macho, even for me, too medieval.’  
  
‘No. Not medieval, Jack. It’s earlier than that,’ Jack heard Daniel’s voice preach. ‘Much earlier.’ Jack bit his lip and nodded, hoping to placate his captor as he tried not to worry how much earlier. He eased back into the bottom of the boat, pulling gingerly away from the blade.  
  
The man glared at him for another evil moment. Then he pulled the massive blade away with a swish, straightened, sheathed it and studiously ignored Jack.  
  
‘And that is okay, too,’ Jack thought as he looked around. He was in the bottom of a long wooden boat. He could see it was narrow, only about seven or eight feet wide, about twenty feet long, and constructed of overlapping planks. The craft had high gracefully tapering ends and a small mid-deck a little ways aft of where O’Neill crouched. There was a sail. It hung slack, as there was no wind.  
  
There were also six pairs of oars. A dozen sweating men were at those big oars. Wooden blades flashed in the sun as they rowed in a straightforward, incessant rhythm. Someone grunted out a gruff tune as he rowed. The others seemed content to row in cadence to the rudimentary music.  
  
Jack closed his eyes, wearing a poker face. Inside, he was scared stupid. ‘What the hell happened? How’d I get here?’ Jack wondered frantically. ‘Where’s here? Who are these guys? How do I understand them?’  
  
The guttural language sounded more like Dutch or Low German than it did English. ‘Except I don’t speak Dutch, or German,’ Jack thought heatedly. ‘For cryin’ out loud!’  
  
After a brief moment of indulging fear and utter bewilderment, Jack fought back his emotions. They were a waste of time. No one else would save him. This time Carter was safe at home.  
  
‘Thank god for that,’ Jack thought as he eased slowly onto his left side. Jack was sweating and, as he shifted, he felt something wrong under his left arm. It felt like he’d been stabbed. The sweat stung the fresh wound. Still, he kept going, slowly. He didn’t want his keepers to notice him. They’d as soon throw him overboard as not.  
  
‘In fact,’ Jack realized looking at the gaunt faces around him, ‘if water or food run short, that’s exactly what they’ll do. Unless I make myself useful.’ Even if they didn’t kill him, Jack knew he’d be stuck here forever, unless he found a way out. The thought started his heart pounding. ‘How?’ his panic screamed, but he pressed it back down and reminded himself to take it one step at a time.  
  
The first step was threat assessment. Jack turned his head and counted the crew. Not counting the men who probably were resting under the mid-deck, he saw eighteen large, smelly males. None had ever met a razor, or a pair of shears, or a bar of soap for that matter. None of them looked young, or particularly old. He was the only man aboard sporting gray hair.  
  
‘Bad sign,’ he thought, ‘Guess these guys don’t live so long.’ Jack rubbed his chin. To his shock, his hand touched thick, coarse beard. It felt like at least a month’s growth. ‘How long have I been here?’ he wondered, rubbing his head. The hair there had also grown. It felt shaggy and it reached past his ears. It itched.  
  
As Jack scratched whatever creatures had taken up residence in his unkempt hair, he discovered a number of new bruises, including a small, hard knot, about the size of a lentil, behind his right ear. It never occurred to him that it was anything other than another lump from the school of hard knocks.  
  
 ** _Subjective Reality_**  
  
“How’s it going, Sam?” Janet Fraiser asked as she leaned through the door of the dimly lit Physics lab. It was the third night in a row Fraiser had noticed Sam working late. In fact, the Major had been working too hard ever since she’d returned from the Triangle Project site, ever since Jack O’Neill had been MIA.  
  
The Doctor stepped into the lab. Carter spoke without looking up from her work. “I’ve been reworking my calculations,” she murmured as she continued to scribble something in her lab book. “I’m pretty sure that I understand what happened, Janet. I think I know how the Gate might transport a person across time.”  
  
“That’s good!” Fraiser replied, smiling down at her friend’s indecipherable notes. When she saw Sam’s frown, she continued. “Isn’t it?”  
  
“Yes and no, I guess,” Sam sighed, still writing. She shoved her hand back through her hair and looked up at her friend. Janet saw tears in her eyes. “It’s my fault that he’s missing, Janet. I sent him back.”  
Later that evening, Carter was at General Hammond’s door. At her knock on the door, Hammond replied, “Come.”  
  
“General? I’d like to talk to you about what’s next for the Triangle Project,” Carter began.  
  
“That’s the subject of your briefing tomorrow morning, isn’t it Major?” Hammond asked.  
  
“Yes, General. It’s just that I’d like to discuss it with you before the briefing,” Carter said.  
  
Hammond looked at her and Sam knew that he knew. She could feel him decide to tolerate her shenanigans. He was cutting her slack because of Jack.  
  
‘Well, fine,’ Sam thought, ‘anything it takes.’  
  
“Take a seat Major,” Hammond said. “What can I do for you?”  
  
“General, I think I’ve worked out why the Star Gate can sometimes transport a traveler across time as well as space,” Sam said as she sat.  
  
“Major,” Hammond sighed, “I know you don’t agree with our orders, but we do have them. The Pentagon and the President of the United States, our bosses, have decided that research into time travel is simply too dangerous, and a waste of resources at a time when we may be facing another all out assault from the Goa’uld. Is this what you’ve been working on?”  
  
Carter swallowed hard as Hammond’s kind eyes met her own. “Yes, General,” she whispered. “It is.”  
  
Hammond looked down at his hands for a moment before he spoke again. “I see. Well, that’s understandable Major Carter. We all want to find some way to …” Hammond’s words ran out. The old man sighed and continued. “The Pentagon and the President gave our proposal serious consideration. They believe time travel is simply too dangerous. In this instance, I agree with them. I’m sorry.”  
  
Carter took a deep breath, stood and said, “In that case, General Hammond, I regret to inform you that I’m resigning from the military, effective immediately.”  
  
“Resigning?” Hammond asked, wide-eyed. “Major Carter, that is simply not an option. You know that, Sam. We need you. You’ve been the driving force behind the Triangle research. We don’t know when another fleet of Goa’uld may appear over Earth. If you resign, you’ll only be recalled under the terms of your service contract. There’d be no way for me to keep the NID from getting hold of you. Do you really want that?”

Carter stood silently for a long moment. Then she said, “No General, of course not.”  
  
“So, what do you want Major?” Hammond asked kindly. “If it’s within my power, you know I’ll authorize it.”  
  
“I want to go after Jack O’Neill,” Carter said. “He’s out there, General, somewhere. Waiting. You know he is, Sir. I promised him that I’d find him.  
  
What about ‘we don’t leave our people behind?’”

Hammond flushed and dropped his eyes. “Major Carter, we don’t leave our people behind. But that’s not exactly what’s happened. O’Neill’s missing. He was the last one through the Gate. The others tell me the ship was torn apart beneath him. It’s very likely that’s why he didn’t make it. Maybe Gorlagon’s tale explains this, but maybe it doesn’t. There’s no way we can know, Major Carter.”  
  
Carter held her breath as the General continued. She didn’t want to listen, but she couldn’t just bolt from the room.  
  
“I know you don’t accept this, Sam,” Hammond sighed, as he stood and came around his desk to grasp her shoulder, “but we do lose people, good people. As hard as we try not to, Major, it happens.”  
  
“I sent him back in time, General Hammond, when I activated Triangle, I created the closest thing there is to a solar flare. I created it right under his ship, right under his Gate. I am absolutely certain, Sir,” she whispered. Sam shifted uncomfortably under the General’s steady, sympathetic gaze. Hammond placed his other hand on her shoulder and gripped it hard.  
  
“I know you don’t want to hear this,” he said, “but I don’t know what happened to O’Neill. Major, you don’t either, not for certain. I can’t risk a mission to go after him. Even if I was willing, I have orders forbidding a rescue mission. We just have to try to go on somehow. I am sorry. I hope you know that. Unless you can bring me an alternative to traveling back into the past, that’s my final word on the matter.”  
  
Hammond released his grip on her shoulders and locked his steely blue eyes on her. “Understood, Major?”  
  
“Understood, General,” Carter replied because she couldn’t debate him.  
  
“Good,” the General said, smiling at her. “I want you to go home, now. No more work tonight. I want you to hit the sack early and get a good night’s sleep. I’m canceling tomorrow’s briefing. You have another 24 hours to prepare. Dismissed.”  
  
Five minutes later, Carter pulled her sweatshirt over her head. Then she popped a handful of aspirin, tossed the bottle back into her locker and slammed the door shut. She ignored the bitter taste in her mouth as she bent to tie her shoes.  
  
Dressed in civvies, she was finally headed out of the mountain. Janet had tried to engage her in friendly conversation all day. Sam knew she was concerned. Teal’c had suggested dinner at the steakhouse down the mountain. It was a wildly uncharacteristic offer of revelry from the stoic Jaffa.  
  
Sam had declined their advances as politely as possible. She was bone tired. She just wanted to get home and go to bed, as soon as physically possible.  
  
She walked to the elevator and punched the up button, tapping her foot impatiently. Her mouth tasted of the aspirin.  
  
The doors finally opened and she stepped in and jabbed the ‘close doors’ button. Then she waited out the long elevator ride to the surface. As the floors clicked by, she urged the doors to remain closed. She didn’t want to talk to anyone. The door stayed closed all the way to the top.  
  
It was her first lucky break since Bermuda. After her rescue, Sam had expected a visit from Jack. The Colonel always checked on his team, always. She waited in vain. He didn’t come.  
  
Finally, she’d swallowed her pride. She asked Janet about it and was told what had happened to the Colonel while the Yult had held him captive, but Sam knew that wasn’t right. The Colonel couldn’t have been in the Infirmary, dying, when he’d been the one to rescue her. He’d found her. She knew it. She remembered him pulling her into the boat, his warmth as he held her, comforting her through hours of a wild storm with a steady flow of tender nonsense. She could almost remember the words. She did remember the feel of him, the undeniable sense of him wrapped around her.  
  
Baffled, Sam had asked Daniel about it. Daniel hadn’t denied it, exactly. He had babbled some meaningless doubletalk and abruptly changed the subject.  
  
When Janet let Sam out of the Infirmary, she’d tried to see Jack, but Janet said no. The Colonel really wasn’t up to seeing anyone, not yet. He still wouldn’t see her when her orders came through to head up the Triangle Project. So, Sam left. She went to Bermuda, her irrational anger smoldering. She built Triangle and did everything she could think of to put her feelings aside, including encouraging Zeek Angstrom.  
  
Sam found Zeek attentive and very easy on the eyes. She hadn’t felt truly feminine since Harlan had ascended. Zeek made her feel desirable, intelligent and funny. She let herself enjoy the feelings and she began to flirt back. ‘Why not?’ she told herself bitterly, ‘It’s not as if I’m involved with anyone else.’  
  
Burying her feelings of guilt, she began to consider the possibility of Doctor Zeek Angstrom as a lover. Then, out of the blue, Jack appeared. Sam would never forget that moment. She felt eyes on her. She looked up. The Colonel stood on the dunes above. He was squinting into the glare. He was in full dress uniform, burnished by the rays of the setting sun. He was dog-tired and he looked magnificent.  
  
Sam told herself to get a grip, as she waved. She reminded herself that Jack O’Neill was her CO. Anything more than a strictly professional friendship was hopeless, dangerous, against regulations. Then, miraculously, it all fell into place. The Colonel wasn’t going to recover, not completely, and he was being retired. Sam had never seen him so completely off balance. So, she swallowed her pride and told him how she felt. She said that she wouldn’t leave him, admitted that he meant more to her than running her own project, more than anything else. Suddenly, Jack O’Neill was hers and, for ten hours thirty-seven minutes, everything was exactly, completely right.

Then, like a case study in chaos theory, perfection fell apart. Sam had watched the MPs take Jack away. She told herself it would be all right. She told herself that General Hammond would make it right, that Jack could take care of himself and she stayed behind, as ordered. Sam made Triangle a reality. She did all that Jack and the Air Force had asked of her, but when she followed everything was wrong. Jack wouldn’t see her. He seemed hell bent on self-destruction and General Hammond didn’t seem able to do anything about it. Still she trusted Jack and General Hammond. She did her duty, pressed the button, as ordered, saved Earth again and sent the only man she would ever love back fifteen hundred years. It was over. She’d been a fool and she knew she could never make it right again.  
  
Carter stepped out of the elevator and strode quickly across the parking lot to her car. She slipped into the driver’s seat. Her hands shook as she fumbled with her keys.

‘C’mon, c’mon,’ she growled to herself. ‘Get a grip!’ Finally the key slid into its slot. She turned it and the car roared to life. Sam squealed out of the parking lot, not caring that enlisted personnel turned to watch her rocket past.

She usually enjoyed the throaty sound of her lovely old sports car. Today, it wasn’t enough. She fumbled for a CD. They spilled onto the floor.

“Crap,” Sam cursed. Then she flicked on the radio and cranked up the volume, hoping for some hard rock to drive out her jumbled thoughts. Instead, she got local news. Sam punched scan and, when she heard music, locked in the station. Lauper was in mid-croon:

_You're calling to me, I can't hear what you've said  
Then you say go slow, but I fall behind   
The second hand unwinds _

The words hit hard.

_If you're lost you can look and you will find me  
Time after time  
If you fall I will catch you, I'll be waiting, Time after time_

Sam couldn’t function. She careened to the side of the road and sat with her heart in her throat and her forehead on the steering wheel, listening. She wanted to turn off the damned radio. Somehow, she couldn’t. It felt like betrayal not to listen to the bitter end.

_I will be waiting, Time after time  
Time after time, Time after time  
Time after time_

  
_**Chapter 2. Message in a Baggy** _

A thousand miles to the Northeast, Daniel Jackson squatted on a windswept cliff, overlooking the surf. Volcanic peaks punctuated the skyline behind him. A few emitted streams of light gray smoke. Snowflakes flitted around his gloved hands as he worked.

“Red clay,” Daniel muttered as he removed layer after layer of ocean-formed cobbles. He was opening a gravesite. It was a red clay grave from a people that he’d recently proven pre-dated the Norse population of Iceland by over three hundred years.

“Jack said they were here. He was right,” Daniel muttered as he noted details of the grave. Then Daniel worked his trowel into the hard red surface and pried loose a chunk of the hardened clay. He leaned down low and pulled another piece loose with his gloved fingers.

A thin plastic corner caught his eye.

“What the hell?” Daniel said as he pulled the corner free from the surrounding materials. He worked carefully. The plastic sleeve was delicate. After fifteen minutes, he had it uncovered and lifted it.

“A ziploc baggy,” Daniel said aloud. “Holy ... There’s paper inside.”

Daniel stood and walked down the hillside to his office. He didn’t speak to anyone about what he’d unearthed.

Inside, he poured a cup of coffee and locked the door, before he sat at his desk. He turned on his high intensity desk lamp and sat, sipping coffee for a moment. Then he picked up the artifact. The ancient baggy looked like a common sandwich bag. The paper inside appeared to be graph paper. A pale blue grid still showed in spots behind the cramped writing. It was badly faded, but Daniel recognized Sam’s handwriting.

“Sam’s letter,” he said aloud. “This has got to be from Jack.”

Daniel sipped his coffee and tried to decide whether to read the letter or not. On one hand, it was archeological evidence, a message in time. On the other hand, it was a personal letter, possibly a farewell from one of his closest friends to another.

“No. He knew I’d find it,” Daniel decided. “That’s why Gorlagon prompted me to ask all those questions about his ancient personal history. He wanted me to know.”

Daniel set down the cup and reached for the baggy. He carefully pulled the seal apart. The ziploc seal stuck for a moment and then crumbled.

Daniel pulled apart the layers of discolored plastic and gently slid the ancient paper out onto the desk. It was dry and very brittle. A corner chipped off as he laid it down.

‘Too dry to handle,’ Daniel thought as he walked to the stove and got the kettle. He poured boiling water into a cereal bowl he’d rinsed after breakfast and left to dry on the counter. He carried the steaming bowl to the desk.

Daniel set the bowl on his desk blotter. Then he picked up the letter and gingerly held it over the water. The paper relaxed slightly in the warm steam.

He set the bowl aside and gently eased the tight folds apart. A different handwriting appeared, as another piece chipped off. The piece of paper fluttered onto his desk blotter.

Daniel’s hands began to shake when he glimpsed the pale writing. It was Jack’s open, loopy hand. ‘Like a big kid’s writing,’ Daniel thought, ’very military, very easy to read.’

He could make out something. It looked like:

‘…ove her. Tell her not to come.’

The paper was thin and frail. Daniel’s hands shook harder as the impact of his discovery hit. He was reading a note from Jack O’Neill from over a millennium ago. Even though he’d only been missing for a few days.

Daniel forced his hands to be still. This was too important to screw up. He let his breath out in a long, slow sigh and started to turn the paper, to see if he could make out any other words. At that moment, there was a jingling at the door.

“Hey! Doc!” Daniel heard a voice through the door.  
  
“Not now!” he yelled as loud as he dared, but the knob was turning.

“No!” Daniel hollered louder as he heard a key in the door lock.

The field technician on the other side of the door never heard him, apparently. An instant later, wind and snow swirled into the room.

“No! Close the god-damned door!” Daniel roared. But it was already too late. The paper in his hands lifted on the wind. His fingers held two tiny remnants. The rest had pulled away and cart wheeled across the desk, propelled by the wind.

Flecks of paper showed the path of the note for an instant. Then they, too, lifted on secondary gusts as the technician quickly slammed the door shut.

“What?” the man asked, red-faced and flustered.

Daniel stared from his empty fingers to the man standing in the door and then back to the tracing of debris on the blotter. The letter had disintegrated.

Daniel stared at the desktop and murmured, “What have I done? Jesus, I should have waited. I should have placed the entire artifact into an airtight container and flash frozen it. I should have waited to use an MRI!” Daniel stared a moment. Then he looked away. A tattered shard had fallen to the desk. He didn’t need to touch it to see that there was more writing.  
 _‘…my friend, Daniel, do this.’_  
  
ΩΩΩ  
  
Fifteen hours later Sam Carter waited impatiently at the luggage claim area for Daniel to land. She’d been waiting since wrapping up her work at the SGC. She decided to meet him after an enigmatic email arrived from spacemonkey@yahoo.com.

‘Sam,’ it had said, ‘I got a message from Jack. He made it. That’s all I know for sure, I am sorry.’

Sam had read the message five times and then vowed to teach Daniel to write a message without mystery. Then she checked the flights from Iceland or the East Coast and found the only plane he could be on tonight, the red-eye from Boston at 1:30 am. Sam knew that Daniel, an archeologist to the very core, never brought much with him, but always returned with several overweight bags. Sam knew, without a doubt that she could intercept him at the baggage claim.

The crowd started to swell. Another five minutes passed before Sam caught a glimpse of Daniel in the crowd. He looked exhausted and upset. He stared ahead as he walked without any sign he saw her. Sam waved her hand over her head to get his attention.

“Daniel,” Sam called, waving again, “Over here.”

Daniel ‘s face lit up and he waved back. It was a little wave from the wrist. His hand was barely visible under the coat slung across his arm.

“Sam,” he said as he stepped close to her and dropped his stuff. Then he gave her a warm hug, and murmured in her ear. “I got a note from Jack. He made it. He wasn’t on the ship.”

Sam stepped back to make eye contact. “A note?” she asked, her heart jumping.

“Yeah,” Daniel confirmed. “Gorlagon told me about these graves in Iceland. I don’t know why he knew I’d go check them out, but he was right.”

Sam smiled, thinking, ‘Of course, you’d check them out, Daniel. That’s what you do!’

“So you found a note in one of them?” she said.

“Yeah, I did.” Daniel said. “It was wrapped in a Ziploc sandwich bag.”

Sam’s head was spinning as she blurted, “Where is it? Can I read it now?”

Daniel was suddenly frowning. “I’m sorry, Sam,” he mumbled, “but I … screwed up. The note disintegrated. I should have waited, but I didn’t. It fell apart in my hands. I only got a glimpse, enough to know it was Jack’s handwriting on the back of something you’d written on graph paper.”

“My letter,” Sam said, recalling how she’d scratched out the note, knowing it might be the last words she’d send him, but still not believing it.

“I guess he had it with him when …” Daniel stopped and rubbed his eyes.

“When I activated Triangle and threw him back 1500 years into the past,” Sam concluded bitterly. Then she continued, “What did you read? Anything that helps?”

“You won’t think so. Jack said not to let you go back for him,” Daniel sighed. “It said that, if I’m his friend, I’ll stop you.”

“You, too? General Hammond beat you to it,” Sam said. “He wants an alternative to traveling back in time. There is none.”

“Ah, I’ve been thinking about that,” Daniel said. “Maybe there is. What if we travel into the future, instead? What if we can find a reliable technology? Remember when Cassie met us in the Gate room? She didn’t seem too terribly impressed with time travel, did she?”

“Time travel in any direction is out, Daniel,” Sam replied, shaking her head. “The President won’t authorize research into ‘Gate-based time travel at all. General Hammond agrees.”

“We don’t need to use the ‘Gate, Sam,” Daniel said, smiling, “except to go to P3X-667.”

“What’s on P3X-667?” Sam asked.

Daniel grinned and said, “The Yult.”

 

_**Chapter 3. Priorities**_  
  
Hammond shook his head decisively. He’d indulged Major Carter for the past three weeks, but no more. He’d accepted her erratic behavior while she mourned Jack O’Neill, but no more. Maybe she blamed herself for his death, maybe she’d been through hell, but this was going too far.  
  
“Absolutely not, Major Carter,” the General repeated for the third time in less than two minutes. “I am sorry, but I have considered your recommendation and your request is denied. We have far more pressing problems at the moment. Problems that require your undivided attention.”  
  
Carter tried a different tact. “Sir, Zeek Angstrom isn’t talking. He’s not a stupid man, General. He knows the Air Force won’t torture him. The Yult are our only other option for learning about this threat.”  
  
Hammond shook his head and said, “Major, you may be correct, but at the moment there are higher priorities and I need you to deal with them immediately. I need Triangle operational ASAP.”  
  
“Sir, let me stress that finding Gorlagon is our best bet to locate the rest of the Yult on Earth,” Sam persisted. “Every moment I delay reduces the odds he will still be on P3X-667. If his group of Yult move on through the Gate system, we’ll probably never find them again, Sir.”  
  
Hammond felt his face flush as she pressed her point. Sam had just crossed over the line, again. He wasn’t used to Carter debating his orders. He was angry and he was about to order her to stand down when he saw her falter. Her eyes grew wide. Then she clapped her mouth shut and nodded her agreement.  
  
“Yes, General. I understand. I’ll start immediately,” she said.  
  
Hammond’s blood pressure dropped back to normal and he felt a guilty twinge.  
  
“I am sorry, Major Carter,” he said. “Rest assured, when Triangle is operational, I will take your recommendation under consideration. Dismissed.”  
  
He watched Sam head for the door. She reminded him more of Jack O’Neill with each passing day. A month ago, Carter never debated orders. This morning was just the latest in countless debates they’d had over her desire to rescue Jack O’Neill. She’d debated him over the Pentagon’s decision to deny research into time travel. She’d debated the President’s direct orders to concentrate on Triangle. She’d debated Hammond’s own decisions.  
  
Losing Jack O’Neill was tragic and George Hammond felt the loss keenly. He’d have given almost anything to make things different, but even he saw an upside to this tragedy. O’Neill’s absence had transformed Samantha Carter.  
  
Sam had always been brilliant, dedicated and courageous, but she’d also been a subordinate, eclipsed by her flamboyant CO. Since Jack’s loss, that had changed. Sam had become a leader.  
  
She would be up for promotion again very soon. At this rate, she’d make Colonel in record time. Sam would probably make General in Hammond’s own lifetime. George smiled at the thought. He would like the chance to pin those stars on Jacob’s little girl.  
  
In the near term, Hammond would offer her command of SG-1. He could do that much for her. He wasn’t sure she’d take it, but the job was hers, if she wanted it.  
  
ΩΩΩ  
  
Sam headed for the Physics lab. She was fuming. Once again duty took precedence over her personal priorities. It was the life she’d chosen and she couldn’t change that now, but she was about ready to chuck it all. She’d have been gone days ago, if she hadn’t known that the military would find her, drag her back and clap a leg iron on her, if that was what it took to make her fix Triangle. Also, the fate of the world depended on making it work.  
  
‘So, I’d better get to it,’ she thought bitterly as she settled on the lab stool and opened her notebook.  
  
The problem was how to use the BQs to knock out orbiting enemy ships without frying everything else in near-Earth orbit. At the moment there wasn’t much up there to worry about. Only a handful of satellites had launched since Sam fried the Goa’uld invasion fleet, along with every weather, communications and spy satellite in near-Earth orbit.  
  
With remarkable speed, however, Verizon, Microsoft and a handful of private multinational companies had quickly launched new birds. Those companies were reaping huge profits in what was, essentially, a monopoly.  
  
The military had managed to get a couple up, as well, only a week behind the private sector. They’d commandeered private satellites in the interest of national security. As a result, telecommunications, GPS and weather tracking were back to normal. Less forward-looking companies were scrambling to catch up, but they too would have satellites up there soon.  
  
Carter needed to make Triangle work without turning all these shiny new satellites to space dust. This time the world was, literally, watching. Thanks to UN publicity of every launch everyone on Earth would know if she failed. Ever since the Goa’uld had come calling, it was a brave new world, chocked full of international scrutiny and public mistrust.  
  
So, Sam knew that, if she screwed up, heads would roll, especially hers. She didn’t really give a rip about her own career at the moment, but General Hammond’s head would be on the block as well. Though she suspected there were days when the General might welcome retirement, Sam didn’t want to think about the future at the SGC without George Hammond running interference.  
  
The problem was that Carter didn’t want to alter the Triangle plasma wave, at least not very much. The wave of supercharged plasma had been damned effective.  
  
No one had ever considered that three-dimensional wave-based weapons would be far more formidable than particles or beams in the realm of outer space. A wave, as a three-dimensional weapon, didn’t need to be targeted precisely, or at all. It just had to be powerful.  
  
Triangle was powerful. Its plasma wave had burned up everything it struck, like a Tsunami crashing into every shore. Some targets were hit harder, or sooner, others later with less energy, but everything from the epicenter outwards was hit, sooner or later, and turned to smoldering crisps. It was just a matter of power and time.  
  
‘Time,’ Sam mused, ‘or timing?’ She let her intellect play with the notion, rolling it around, considering it from different angles, as she absent-mindedly scribbled the locations of the existing satellites in her lab book.  
  
After another moment Sam stopped doodling abruptly and stared down at her notes. ‘That’s it!’ she realized, grinning.  
  
It was there, as clear as her lousy artwork could make it. She had drawn Earth, a lopsided orb, with several small dots around it – the orbiting satellites. Spiraling up from the surface was Triangle’s plasma wave.  
  
The spiral looked like an oversized, super-powered slinky. The plasma stream wrapped around the planet, just as it had before. Instead of spiraling close to Earth, however, it first made a long, open loop. That loop would allow Sam to arch the plasma over the satellites, or under them, and catch targets on either side. It was merely a matter of perfect timing.  
  
‘We can do this!’ Sam realized. “We can do this and then I can get the hell out of here,” she said aloud as she grabbed the phone.  
  
In less than thirty minutes, she’d assembled SGC’s best programmers and presented the problem. Sam could handle the Physics, but the timing was crucial. For perfect timing she needed a computer program.  
  
Teams worked the problem non-stop through the next several days. Within a week, they had it licked. On the morning of the seventh day, Sam briefed General Hammond on the modified Triangle program. She had a theory, a program and a simulation to demonstrate that her solution would work.  
  
The General beamed and accepted her recommendations. Then he cut the orders necessary to make Triangle fully operational. That afternoon, Sam expected she would finally be ordered to don field gear and head out for P3X-667.  
  
Hammond wasn’t smiling when he summoned Sam his office just three hours later. Sam was mystified, until she saw the General’s face.  
  
“No,” she said without even hearing what he had to say. “This is not happening!”  
  
“Hear me out, Major Carter,” Hammond growled softly. If he’d shouted it would have been less effective and the old man knew it.  
  
Sam froze and said, “Yes Sir.”  
  
“Take a seat,” Hammond ordered. “I have orders from Washington. They expect a briefing on Triangle at Camp David in two days.”  
  
“When do you leave, Sir?” Sam asked with a trace of sarcasm.  
  
Hammond’s eyebrows shot up. “I don’t leave, Major. You do. This time the President wants to hear it straight from the creator of the Triangle.”  
  
Sam almost laughed, as she said, “Of course he does.” She knew it was meant as an honor to brief the President, the Commander in Chief. It was also a colossal waste of time and her insubordinate tone made it perfectly clear.  
  
She shook her head. She started to argue, but then saw General Hammond’s face. She’d expected anger. Instead Hammond’s normally good-humored face was ashen and lined with grief and utter defeat.  
  
Sam bit back her hurtful remark and nodded silently.  
  
“You leave in two hours, Major. Sorry for the short notice, but I just got off the phone,” Hammond said. “The Joint Chiefs are delighted and very impressed.”  
  
Sam waited and then said, “Will there be anything else, Sir?”  
  
Hammond sighed and said, “Nothing, except … congratulations on a job well done and thank you.”

 

_**Chapter 4. Thor’s Crucible**_  
  
A brilliant sun shone as Jack heaved against the heavy oar, matching the grunting rhythm of the other men. He’d long since stopped wondering why he understood them. He’d stopped worrying about tomorrow, or yesterday. He let himself believe that Sam was home, healthy and, if he understood her note, pregnant. He forced all other concerns aside. He focused on surviving, until he could find his way back.  
  
He had lost count of the days. He knew weeks had passed, maybe months, since he’d arrived inexplicably in the midst of these rugged men.  
  
He’d been lucky. Food and water were limited on such a small ship. At first, he’d received none. Only men who worked ate. He had no work, so he got no food, aside from what he might catch by trolling over the side.  
  
He’d caught nothing, as usual. After three days, he started to wonder whether he’d been pulled into the boat as rations.  
  
Then his luck changed. One of the crew fell ill. The man had struggled to hide it. He continued to row at a steady pace, but beads of perspiration betrayed his pain. The man thrashed at night, groaning in his sleep, but maintained stoic reserve through the days.  
  
Jack guessed it was appendicitis. After two days, the man could no longer row. Night fell. Jack lay awake under the stars, ever vigilant against the hostile crew.  
  
He heard men moving and tensed. He was prepared, he told himself. He was ready. He gripped the sharp wooden boat spike that he’d stolen the first night aboard. The footsteps came closer. It was three men. Jack steeled himself. They passed by. A moment later, he heard a brief scuffle, aft. The killing party had their victim. They made short work of their sick comrade. In an instant, the doomed man was slipped overboard.  
  
Jack was assigned to his place at the oars in the morning. The Captain ordered him fed with the rest of the crew at sunset. It had been nearly a week. The dried fish and fruit tasted like heaven. Jack’s hands, arms and side complained bitterly. Like his predecessor at the oar, Jack maintained a stoic silence and matched the others stroke for stroke. Food was necessary. He had to row to earn it. He rowed.  
  
The rations weren’t sufficient. Jack was always hungry and thirsty, but he was alive and, as long as he rowed, he’d stay alive. When they reached land he’d figure out the next step. For now, it was enough to keep going, to heave and pull against the oar in time with those beside him. Every stroke made the Ziploc inside his tunic crinkle pleasantly against his chest reminding him that he was one stroke closer to a solution, one stroke closer to home. He just had to keep rowing.  
  
His shipmates were a group that had gone ‘a-Viking.’ Basically it was a mission of exploration and raiding, or maybe exploration for raiding. This group had left Iceland in early spring and voyaged in a long arc into southern waters, seeking soft civilizations to plunder. Instead, they had battled fierce islanders. If they couldn’t plunder, they traded for shells, spotted birds eggs, baskets and cleverly worked coral beads and other coral artifacts.  
  
Jack winced as his train of thought reminded him of Daniel … and home. ‘They’re called artifacts,’ he’d said. ‘How many days ago, how many centuries from now?’ Jack didn’t know for sure. If Gorlagon had predicted this accurately, he’d been thrown back about fifteen hundred years. If that was true, he was at the dawn of Christianity.  
  
Jack considered his shipmates. These men were not Christians. That was obvious. Most wore symbols that Jack recognized from his visits to worlds that worshiped Thor.  
  
Strangely, the men now seemed to welcome him. They’d dubbed him ‘Opa,’ a term Jack suspected was short for ‘grandpa.’ He didn’t mind. It was about right, since most of these men were twenty years younger than him; although living hard had made them look far older.  
  
What troubled him was that these same men had been letting him starve. They had murdered their crewmate without hesitation. The sentiment, however odd, was familiar. It reminded him of his first days in Vietnam.  
  
Experienced soldiers had shunned him and the other replacements at first. They’d had already lost too many people they cared about. They weren’t willing to waste friendship on green kids who were probably going to die within days. The ‘newbies’ got the most dangerous duty, the nastiest patrols and all of the scutt work. Jack did his job, kept his mouth shut and survived. After a few weeks, things changed. He’d passed some unspoken test, through intelligence, courage or maybe just inordinate luck and, then, the veteran fighters began to look out for him.  
  
These men were the same: Hard, cold, pragmatic and deadly.  
  
The sun crawled around the bowl of azure sky, as it had for uncounted days. Jack rowed. He ignored the ache in his stomach. Food would come. It wasn’t enough to stop the hunger pangs. He could do nothing about that, so he ignored it and rowed.  
  
In another week, the Captain ordered them to kill the last live goat. With her went their supply of fresh milk. Then there was no more dried fruit. Men fished constantly and were forced to share what they caught. The Captain doled out water and dried meat sparingly once a day. Jack took his meager share, ate a third of his portion slowly, and hid the rest in the Ziploc baggy tucked inside his tunic. He’d save it for later, just in case.  
  
The crew had always rowed day and night. Now, they bent into the oars with a frantic will. A few more days passed and there were no more daily rations. It was a race against starvation. Still Jack told himself that every stroke brought him closer to home, somehow.  
  
Overhead, Thor scanned the planet, located O’Neill and watched the men far below labor at their oars. The ship was still far from any shore. ‘How,’ Thor wondered, ‘can they hope to arrive in time? Their food must be almost gone. The livestock is gone and water must be running short, as well. I have not seen a man drink in many hours, despite the hot sun on their backs. Fascinating,’ Thor thought.  
  
Thor watched the gray-haired subject at his oar. The subject was an old man, yet he worked as hard as any man aboard. ‘The subject wants to live,’ Thor decided. ‘He wants it very much.’ The Asguard nodded with satisfaction. The subject had assimilated to his new life.  
  
Thor allowed the screen to remain on the ship of toiling men, but he turned back to his own difficult work – solving the mysteries of the man far below. The scan results were tantalizing, of course. They showed residual data markers of the Ancients, but none of the knowledge itself.  
  
Asguards are patient beings and Thor was a model of his race. Even so, too many hours passed while he patiently sought what began to seem like a chimera. It tried even an Asguard’s serenity. Finally, Thor snorted and straightened in his seat, frustrated. ‘This is taking far too long,’ he decided. ‘I need a different approach.’  
  
Thor’s experience taught that the most valuable insights often come unexpectedly from unforeseen avenues. He paused. It was difficult to think asymmetrically. Linear thought is the Asguard approach, linearly and logically. That approach, however, had yielded nothing of value.  
  
‘Discovery is as much a matter of luck and coincidence, as of logical application of conscious will,’ he chided himself. “Chance favors the prepared mind,” he murmured aloud as he worked. “How does one prepare for luck?”  
  
Thor turned back to the scan data. The results were exciting, astonishing and, at the moment, thoroughly aggravating, like everything else about the subject. So far, he’d focused entirely on the tracings, the residual patterns in the subject’s mind where the Ancient’s knowledge had resided. Those patters were the logical starting point, since they proved the human had once carried the knowledge of the Ancients -- Logical, but unproductive.  
  
‘A different approach,’ Thor reminded himself. Now, for no logical reason, Thor set the tracings aside and turned to other data he’d collected on the subject.  
  
He skimmed the data more or less randomly. He brought up an image of the man’s totem. ‘Fascinating,’ he thought. It was a nearly transparent bag. Inside was a translucent paper. The paper was nearly covered with tightly scribbled runes. After a moment of examining the runes, Thor sighed and shifted several smooth stones on a panel at his side, altering the connections into his ship’s computer. An instant passed, the machine whirred, and then suddenly the scene on the wall screen faded. It was replaced by mental images that the scan had plucked from the subject’s mind.  
  
Thor watched as the screen displayed the memories. These were memories most deeply etched on the subject’s brain. Thor hoped scraps of knowledge might reside deep in the recesses of the man’s forgotten past.  
  
At first dense jungle filled the screen. Then warriors appeared to the right and left. They were odd humans, secretive. They wore green and black stripes across their faces and moved stealthily through the dense underbrush.  
  
Suddenly a firefight filled the screen. Thor gasped, startled as the screen erupted with violence. Several men died, one torn asunder by a device Thor did not understand. Trees crashed down and caught fire, explosions rocked the jungle and the subject’s memories showed every horrific moment.  
  
Thor moved a stone and the playback sped forward, but each and every time he stopped the man’s mind was filled with yet another battle. Once the man was at sea; another time he fought in a cold, windswept desert. Then he battled amidst a crumbling city and then in a weird, flat place where the enemy glowed neon green in an otherwise black, featureless space. Each time the man was suddenly surrounded by death, violence and the blood-curdling screams of men at war.  
  
Thor was enthralled with the human mode of battle. This race was capable of massive destruction. Their weapons were swift and deadly. They were far advanced as a society, much farther than the human populations of Earth.  
  
‘The man must come from another planet,’ Thor realized. ‘No such technology exists on Earth. Clearly, this man is from an advanced society, yet his people are also primitive and incredibly violent,’ Thor thought. ‘He has battled his entire lifetime, it appears.’  
  
Thor rubbed his face. He felt slightly woozy from witnessing such violence. He reset the computer, ordering it to scan past battles. Unfortunately, the new search results, Thor saw, presented still more disturbing scenes. The subject had been a prisoner and he’d been tortured. Thor cringed as the memories showed other men being murdered. There were strong memories of a young boy who had died violently. The subject had held the child in his arms and watched him die.  
  
‘This human has endured terrible pain -- danger, torture and worse,’ Thor realized as he turned away to reset the system again. ‘His mind is full of it. I must remove all such memories from my next search.’  
  
Thor set the stones in a new configuration. The computer whizzed for a moment. Then Thor turned back to the screen and gasped.  
  
“It’s me,” he exclaimed. His own face filled the screen. Freer stood beside him on the screen and the subject knelt before them.  
  
“You’ve got to understand,” the man said earnestly. “Ready or not, we are out there now.”  
  
“Impossible!” Thor snapped at the screen. “This never happened. I have no memory of this man or this meeting.” Yet, there was the proof on the ship’s screen, clear as his ship’s technology could make it.  
  
Thor moved a stone and the image blurred as the memories shifted. The man was at a blackboard, scribbling wildly as base-eight equations filled the board.  
  
Thor’s thoracic pump froze in mid-stroke as he realized what he was seeing.  
  
“That must be the knowledge of the Ancients,” he said. “I’ve found it.”  
  
His hand trembled as he moved the stone again. The next scene showed the subject before a small screen.  
  
“Jack! Do you know what that says?” another man asked.  
  
“No!” The subject snapped back, “I see the words and it just pops into my fron.”  
  
‘Fron.’ Thor recognized it as a derivative of Latin, or more likely a root language that would become Latin. The subject was speaking the language of the Ancients. The writing on the tiny screen was the written language of the Ancients.  
  
‘Although the knowledge has been erased, his memories of having the knowledge remain intact. Having these memories, I have the knowledge. It is within my computer,’ Thor realized with a surge of excitement.  
  
Thor continued working through the database of memories, scanning first forward and then back, searching for clues about the subject and where, or how, his people discovered knowledge that had eluded Thor’s own kind for eons.  
  
Thor concentrated on his task. He was so focused that he didn’t notice the passage of time. As he worked, however, the planet below continued turning. The sun gradually set and Jack continued to pull at his heavy oar as twilight faded into night.  
  
There’d be no rest for the able-bodied aboard, not tonight, not tomorrow, not until they reached land. The water and food was gone. Over a third of the crew was too weak to row. The ship might reach land if everyone else kept rowing. Otherwise they all would die.  
  
Jack didn’t let himself think about cold beer or Sam. He focused on pulling for shore, telling himself they had to be close, they’d reach land soon. When they did, he’d find a way home, somehow.  
  
The moon rose to port as Jack rowed. He was hungry, thirsty and beyond exhausted. Still, the sliver of shining silver made him smile as it slipped above the black waves.  
  
‘Why the moon?’ he thought as he rowed. ‘We choose to go to the moon in this decade and do the other things not because it is easy, but because it is hard.’  
  
“So damned hard,” he grunted as he rowed.  
  
Two more men collapsed that night, but the sick and dying were no longer thrown into the sea. Jack was relieved at first. Then he was mystified. Then horrified, as he realized why. He wasn’t certain and he didn’t want to think about it. He sure as hell wasn’t going to ask. Instead, he just rowed with all his might and hoped they’d reach landfall soon, very soon, before his suspicions were confirmed.  
  
Far above the moonlit sea, Thor was beginning to understand. He had set the computer to search for certain, very specific syllables. One of the most productive terms was his own name.  
  
Despite a few common mis-hits, such as Thoracic and Thorazine, the search indicated that the subject had heard Thor’s name and had spoken it thousands of times. Thor found that the occurrences were tightly grouped in the man’s memory, all within a few years, a few very recent years.  
  
Another even more frequent term in the man’s memory was the term ‘Goa’uld.’  
  
It was puzzling. Thor’s analysis also showed that the human and his people no longer worshipped him or any of Odin’s race. Nor did they worship the Goa’uld. They had once worshipped both races, but no longer.  
  
Still the term seemed to be nearly an obsession with the subject. It was what he thought about, talked about, dreamed about. Battling the Goa’uld was his sole purpose in life. He was a formidable warrior, from a race of warriors, who’d dedicated himself to defeating the Goa’uld. Thor smiled at the thought.  
  
As dawn’s fingers opened across the planet below, Thor grew certain that he’d found something even more valuable than the lost knowledge of the Ancients. This man’s race might be an ally, a primitive, violent ally in the Asguard’s battle against the latest pestilence in the known Universe – the Goa’uld.  
  
Far below the sea lightened to shades of burnished peach. Jack felt the men around him shift uneasily at their oars. Some unspoken signal had passed among them. It was time, Jack realized, to eat. He glanced around for the morning meal and saw a killing party moving aft where those too weak to row waited. A large blond grabbed a half-conscious man by the hair and pulled his knife.  
  
“No!” Jack bellowed and he stood. “No, don’t kill him!”  
  
The blonde spun on him.  
  
“This is none of your business, slave,” the blonde growled. “These men will die. We can still live.”  
  
“You don’t have to kill him,” Jack reasoned. “Not yet.”  
  
“There’s no food, no water,” the man snarled. Then he turned to the rest of the crew. “We will die unless we row. We can’t row without food.”  
  
Jack reached inside his tunic and pulled out the baggy with Sam’s letter and his pitiful cache of meat. “I have food.”  
  
Before Jack could continue, men around him cried out, “food!” One began to tear at his arm.  
  
Jack suddenly realized he would lose Sam’s note in the tumult. He jerked his arm away as the man snatched at the baggy. Then he grabbed a knife from another’s shoulder scabbard.  
  
“Back off,” he warned softly. “I’ll share what I have, but my way. Otherwise, I’ll throw it over the side.”  
  
“We’ll kill you and take the meat!” someone cried.  
  
“Try,” Jack improvised. “I am protected by Thor. The meat will do you no good if you anger the gods.”  
  
The hunger-crazed crew hesitated, wide-eyed now with fear. All eyes were riveted on the small baggy of dried meat, but every man accepted the fact of unnatural forces. The gods were not challenged lightly.  
  
Jack saw them pause and immediately turned to the Captain and tipped the dried meat into his cupped hands. Then he closed the baggy carefully around Sam’s note and thrust it deep inside his tunic.  
  
The crew stared at the Captain, murmuring in anticipation. The Captain scowled at Jack as he parsed the food out among the wild-eyed seamen. The Captain had no choice but to distribute it all. The crew would have torn them both apart if he’d tried to save any for later.  
  
When every man able to stand had a portion, the Captain took the last small piece for himself. He glared darkly at Jack, broke his share in two and thrust half toward O’Neill.  
  
“Eat,” the Captain ordered.  
  
Jack accepted the morsel and put it in his mouth. The salted meat was hard and dry as stone. He was famished, but he didn’t seem to have any spit to soften it. Still, his stomach growled eagerly and Jack chewed the dry jerky silently.  
  
He chewed and the dying men aft stared, watching him eat. Unless a miracle happened, Jack had only bought them slower deaths. From the look in their eyes, no one aboard expected a miracle.  
  
Jack turned his back on them, sat and began to row. He ignored the edgy mutterings around him. Jack knew he was in danger but he leaned into his oar and focused his thoughts on the note inside his tunic.  
  
The Captain glared at Jack. ‘A slave with power is like a knife with freewill, a dangerous possession. He might turn on his owner at any moment. If we survive, I think the slave is a fitting gift of thanksgiving to his protector Thor.’  
  
ΩΩΩ  
  
That night there was no moon. Dark fell quickly and black as a blanket. No wind blew either, so the crew rowed hard across a rolling sea. Great waves lifted them as the sea rose and fell, smooth as smoked glass.  
  
The crew was on edge. The meat had fed the crew, but it hadn’t satisfied their appetite. The lust for murder lingered. They had blamed it on need: The need for food, the need to survive. But they had eaten and the need persisted. They needed something more primitive.  
  
Jack had seen it before. In tough times, some men need a scapegoat, need violent release. He’d seen it on P2X585 and his team had barely survived it. He’d faced it alone, long before that, in Cambodia.  
  
He recognized the signs. The other men exchanged shifty-eyed glances and those near him pulled away. Their darting eyes wouldn’t meet his gaze.  
  
Jack had gained nothing, but his own sudden death. Violence was coming. He felt it. If land wasn’t sighted soon, the killing party would form again. Tonight he would be their target, if they could summon the courage to test him.  
  
He couldn’t win, not against a boatload of armed, hunger-crazed savages. It would be the entire boat this time. Men who’d laughed with him, who’d accepted him, they all feared him. He was a stranger, an auslander to them all now. Only this morning, he’d been one of them, just another crewman, just the old slave ‘Opa.’  
  
No longer. Jack had revealed too much, far too much, and there was no going back. The crew believed him when he claimed supernatural protection. He’d deceived them by hiding meat. So they imagined he hadn’t needed the food. He was unlike other men. He was too tough, too resilient. It was beyond their ken. So, it wasn’t natural. Superstition filled in the gaps. As night fell, the crew grew more awed and deeply afraid.  
  
Jack didn’t know what the others were thinking, but his gut said he wouldn’t last the night. Not even the Captain would help him. He’d seen the murder-lust in the eyes of his crew and he would not interfere.  
  
It was barely an hour after sunset when Jack sensed immediate danger. It was too dark to see them, but he heard the men drop their oars. The boat shifted, slowed and then wallowed on the waves.  
  
A man beside him made a sudden move and Jack reacted. A knife hissed past to his chest, but he threw himself back and then ducked into a crouch. Something moved nearby and he launched himself hard against it.  
  
He caught a man, midsection, heard him grunt and pushed hard, tumbling them together against several others. The entire group tripped over unyielding plank benches.  
  
Jack was in a wild tangle of arms and legs. He grabbed a long knife from someone’s scabbard and wormed out of the thrashing throng. Men pressed him from behind. He struck out viciously with his elbow. A jaw snapped. The unseen man cried out and fell. Jack swung hard again at the same spot and again felt the satisfying smack of flesh against bone.  
  
Then he turned and slashed with the blade. Men yelped, the way cleared and Jack clambered onto a rowing bench. He caught the end of a thick sheet that touched his shoulder, pushed off and swung out over the ocean.  
  
The arc back brought him to the ship far beyond the murderous crew. He touched the deck and sprinted aft, over the mid-deck, to the very end of the ship.  
  
There, he grabbed another rope and climbed into the rigging. When he felt a breeze and the dizzying sway of the mast, he stopped. He was surrounded by inky night. He drew a deep, shaky breath. He was lucky to be alive.  
  
It was too dark to tell the ocean from the sky, but he wrapped an arm in the ropes and waited, staring into empty space. After a long time, he saw light ahead. He blinked. No, he wasn’t dreaming. His eyes weren’t playing tricks. There was a dim orange glow ahead. Iceland! It had to be Iceland. It had to be land.  
  
“Land!” he whispered. Then he shouted hoarsely, “ Land Ho!” Voices below joined in with wild, eager cries and he felt the ship leap forward as men returned to their oars.  
  
Jack might have been safe, but he wasn’t willing to test that theory. So he wrapped an arm in the rigging and waited as the ship closed the distance through the night. At sunrise he stood and gazed toward the horizon. The sun was rising to his right, but ahead the deep orange scowl had grown. It now filled the entire northern horizon.  
  
‘Close enough,’ he decided. Jack reached into his tunic, jammed the baggy tightly under his belt and then jumped. He hit the icy water with a smack, surfaced and gasped at the cold. He treaded water for a minute, watching for signs that the ship was going to come about, or for any sign they would try to recapture him.  
  
There was none. No one cared. All hands, weak and strong, stayed at their oars. The entire crew was pulling hard for home.  
  
 _ **Chapter 5. That Same Old Glow**_  
  
“You have a ‘go’, Major,” General Hammond said, grinning. “Good luck.”  
  
Carter nodded and said, “Thank you, Sir.” Then she led her team out of the briefing room and into the ‘Gate room.  
  
At Camp David she’d been wined, dined and treated like a clever child by the group of old men who ran the US military. Sam returned as soon as strict military etiquette allowed.  
  
After her whirlwind return, Sam had no difficulty convincing General Hammond that she had to lead an immediate mission to find the Yult. Hammond had agreed. He’d even had the team assembled and ready for a pre-mission briefing. As she sat through the briefing she realized that as far as General Hammond knew, officially, the mission objective was simply to learn all they could about the Yult: how they were organized, how they communicated, where they stayed, everything about their time on Earth.  
  
It was pretty clear that no one had mentioned that they’d be asking Gorlagon about more than the Yult disposition on Earth, a lot more. Sam knew that Daniel expected Gorlagon’s help to locate a time machine. She fully intended to ask the ordeals he had faced in the far distant past and where she might rendezvous with him.  
  
Sam didn’t mention any of it. Neither did Daniel, but from Hammond’s beaming face it was possible that he suspected the real plan.  
  
The Star Gate rumbled through its final circuit. The last chevron locked and the ring roared to life. Sam jogged up the ramp and stepped through the event horizon. Daniel and Teal’c flanked her. Doctor Frazier followed.  
  
Sam emerged into twilight half-glow. Pale lavender light filtered through tall trees. The light came from a violet moon hanging low over the glade. Its dappled surface shone vividly in the clear, cool air. Sam scanned the glade. She saw no threat, but the deep indigo shadows could hide a battalion of Goa’uld, or Yult.  
  
“Fan out,” she ordered softly and signaled for the team to move away from the ‘Gate. An instant later, forms appeared in the shadows.  
  
“That’s far enough,” a voice growled softly. The voice was odd, but so familiar.  
  
Sam’s heart skipped. “Colonel?” she called before she could stop herself.  
  
“For the record, it’s General O’Neill, Carter,” came the hoarse answer as a tall, cloaked figure emerged from the indigo gloom.  
  
“Don’t be such a prick, Jack,” Daniel replied. “We need your help.”  
  
Sam recognized the set of his shoulders, the sound of his step. It was Jack O’Neill, but … it wasn’t. It couldn’t possibly be the same man. Sam stood dumb, not knowing what to say, what to do, no even sure what to call him.  
  
His face was hidden within his hood, but in an instant, strong arms were around her, the masculine scent enfolded her.  
  
“Oh, god!” she breathed. “It is you.” She felt his answer in her hair.  
  
“Yeah,” he whispered. “I’m sorry, Sam. Forgive me, please.”  
  
She slipped her hands up his back and pulled him close for a long moment; afraid this apparition might suddenly vanish.  
  
“You wouldn’t see me, Jack,” she mumbled into his chest. “You left without a word.”  
  
“What!” he snapped, holding her away from him, looking into her face. “What did you say?”  
  
“You … you just left,” Sam muttered softly, suddenly aware that they had an audience of friends and strangers hanging on her words.  
  
“Without a word?” Jack repeated, slowly. Sam shook her head.  
  
“That’s wrong, Samantha,” he said. “That’s not how it happened. C’mon.”  
  
He turned and, gripping her hand tightly, led them into the trees. Sam let him lead them through the dark forest. After twenty or thirty minutes, they arrived at a circular wall of tall timbers. The timbers were sharpened on one end. There was a deep trench at their base, filled with water, a moat.  
  
Jack called out in a strange language that sounded like ancient Norse, or maybe Old English. A drawbridge dropped and they crossed into the inner fortification.  
  
Daniel was muttering under his breath. Sam heard him exclaim about the dark ages, but she ignored him. She was taking in her surroundings. It was clear from the high wall and narrow windows in the towers, that these people expected trouble. They were prepared for a fight.  
  
Before she could ask, however, Jack turned into a doorway of a stone tower at the edge of the city wall. They climbed a steeply winding stair. He moved easily and quickly, Sam noticed.  
  
‘Some things never change,’ she thought enviously, panting as they reached the top.  
  
Jack crossed the room and stared through one of the tiny windows. His hood still hid his face.  
  
“Hungry?” he asked as he motioned for them to sit.  
  
“No, Sir,” Carter answered automatically.  
  
Jack’s shoulders tensed and he sighed, “I retired, Sam, about fifteen centuries ago. So, drop the ‘Sir.’” Then he turned to one of the Yult and said, “Bring some hot tea, please.”  
  
He turned back to the window and said, “You need my help?”  
  
“Yeah,” Daniel replied as he dropped his pack and sat down at a small table. “You told me there is a time machine somewhere on Earth. We need it.”  
  
“Why?” Jack asked tonelessly, as if he already knew the answer.  
  
“To go back for you, of course,” Sam said.  
  
“No,” Jack said.  
  
“No? You mean there’s no machine?” Daniel asked. There was no answer, so he continued, “Or ‘no’ you won’t help?”  
  
Jack’s shoulders fell. “No,” he said softly, “You are not going back.”  
  
“Why not?” Daniel demanded. “Your history won’t change. Our history won’t change. There’s no reason not to go.”  
  
“There is one reason,” Jack said turning toward Sam. “One very good reason. Isn’t there?”  
  
Sam couldn’t see his eyes. The cloak still shrouded his face, but she felt the heat of his glare. She swallowed and said, “Ah, can we have some privacy, please?”  
  
Sam could feel her face flush as Daniel stared at her and then at Jack.  
  
“What is this?” he demanded.  
  
Janet put a hand on Daniel’s forearm and said, “C’mon Daniel.” Then she turned to a young Yult standing nearby and said, “Show us your village.”  
  
The young man glanced at Jack, got unspoken affirmation and agreed. He led the way down the stairs and everyone else, SGC and Yult, followed.  
  
After the others were gone, Sam sighed, dropped her pack and flopped into a chair.  
  
She stared at the toe of her boot for a moment, sighed and said, “It’s not true.”  
  
“I know,” Jack insisted. Hi voice grew strangely soft as he continued, “I knew, would be accurate, and I … wondered. When we heard the Gate activate, I wondered.”  
  
“What?” Sam said.  
  
“If it would be you. It shouldn’t have been. It shouldn’t be. You should be on your … on our honeymoon right now.” Jack stopped speaking suddenly.  
  
“It’s different,” Sam said, suddenly understanding. “It’s different, isn’t it? Things aren’t happening the way you remember!”  
  
“No.” Jack spat the word. It was something between a gasp and a groan as he turned suddenly to face the wall. Sam waited, staring at his rigid back, her heart hammering.  
  
“What do you remember?” she finally asked.  
  
“Everything. I remember every moment,” he hissed. “Every minute, every hour. We had a life together, Sam. We had children together.”  
  
“Children,” she said watching him lift his hand to his face.  
  
He rubbed his face and continued. “This shouldn’t be happening. It’s wrong. We are … camping. I’m not gone, not yet. It means that, somehow I screwed up. I changed something, something important.”  
  
“What about the Goa’uld invasion?” she said.  
  
“They come,” Jack said, “Eventually. “But, you’re here because they already came. It has already happened, hasn’t it?”  
  
“Yeah,” Sam said, “and we kicked the snot out of them.” She hesitated, dreading what she had to admit.  
  
“Except?” he prodded.  
  
“I … you led a holding action to give me time to bring Triangle online. I …” Suddenly Sam couldn’t speak. Her voice broke, with a wracking sob, and she couldn’t make it stop.  
  
Sam closed her eyes and fought the sorrow she’d stifled since that terrible moment when she realized Jack was truly gone. She felt Jack standing over her. He reached for her and she let him pull her up against his chest.  
  
“Then, you did your duty and I did mine,” his soft old voice stated.  
  
He wrapped his arms around her. She felt his heart beat through the warmth of his wool shirt. This was Jack O’Neill. He held her silently, tenderly stroking her hair and back, until Sam let it out in a rush.  
  
“I sent you back,” she sobbed. “It was my mistake, my creation. Oh, god, Jack. I’m sorry.” She clung to him shaking as she sobbed for the man she’d consigned to everlasting exile.  
  
“Shh,” he held her tight and murmured in her hair. “I know. Sam, I knew. It wasn’t your fault. Put it down to bad luck.”  
  
He rocked her gently, continuing, “You did the only thing you could. It was your duty. You saved Earth. Shh. It’s okay.”  
  
After what seemed like forever, Sam regained her self-control and she felt Jack’s arms loosen. She took a step back and looked up at him. “Thank you,” she said, wiping her eyes on her sleeve.  
  
Jack turned away. The gentleness vanished as he rasped, “God, Sam. Don’t thank me. This is my fault. I messed up somewhere … sometime.”  
  
He was furious, she knew from the set of his shoulders. “Jack,” she said, “What happened to you. What’s with the hood?”  
  
His spine stiffened, but he didn’t speak. Sam stood and crossed the room. “Show me,” she said, pulling his arm, forcing him to turn and face her. “I’m your wife, Jack.”  
  
He still didn’t move, so she continued. “Aren’t I?”  
  
Sam raised her left hand and wiggled her fingers. The slim band of silver gleamed on her finger, just where he’d placed it.  
  
Jack stepped close and said, “No, you belong with … the other guy. It’s too late for us.”  
  
Sam raised her hand to his hood and pushed it back from his face. The hood fell back. His eyes looked down at her, warm and brown and so terribly sad that she gasped. “You’re here. You found a way back,” she said, searching his face for a trace of the man she loved.  
  
“Don’t you dare tell me it’s too late. I just lost you,” she whispered slipping her hands up under his cloak. She could feel his back muscles as he turned to her. His eyes flicked down to her mouth. He leaned toward her. She felt his breath on her face. Sam moved her hands up to his shoulders, as their lips touched.  
  
Then his back tensed and he pulled away and spun on his heel.  
  
“C’mon,” he ordered as he swept out of the room.  
  
Sam started to follow but, before she could take a step, there was a shriek of energy weapons. The tower shuddered violently and swayed, throwing Sam to the floor. She covered her head and rolled under the small table, the only shelter in the tiny room. The last thing she saw was the roof coming towards her as she tumbled up the rough stone wall.  
  
Sometime later, Sam opened her eyes. Teal’c sat beside her. He leaned close and said, “Do not try to move, Major Carter.” Impressed by the anxiety on his normally serene face, Sam obeyed. She could hear muffled weapons fire far, far away.  
  
“What?” she croaked.  
  
“I believe that a rival faction of the Yult attacked, Major Carter,” Teal’c answered. “The tower was struck by energy weapons fire. You are badly injured.”  
  
“Jack?” Sam asked.  
  
“We have not found … the General,” Teal’c answered. “You must rest now,” he ordered solemnly.  
  
“Janet?” Sam asked, wondering where the Doctor could be, if she were injured.  
  
“Directing care of the injured,” Teal’c replied.  
  
“Where are we?” Sam asked as she realized there was no light except the tiny halo of light from a candle in Teal’c’s hand.  
  
“We are deep underground, Major Carter,” Teal’c said as he snuffed the candle flame. “The fortification is far more extensive than we realized at first. We are in a system of tunnels.”  
  
“Tunnels. Like the Tok’Ra,” Sam murmured into the dark. Suddenly she was very tired, but there was something she was forgetting, something vital. “Teal’c?” she breathed as it came back to her. “Jack, he’s okay, right?”  
  
“Rest,” Teal’c repeated, taking hold of her hand. “Sleep, Major. We will talk later.”  
  
ΩΩΩ  
  
Sam awoke off and on. Everything was confused, disjointed. She heard Janet ordering people around. Doc Fraiser sounded worried. Sam felt the brush of bodies; smelled explosives and the indefinable, unmistakable smell of wounded. She drifted fitfully.  
  
When she opened her eyes it was light. Not sunlight, but the artificial light used by the Tok’Ra and, apparently, the Yult. Sam gingerly turned her head. Jack stood looking down at her. His cloak was back and she could see every line in his rugged old face. She looked past it, into his warm, dark eyes.  
  
“Hey,” he spoke so tenderly that pangs of fear shot through her. “How you doing?”  
  
“Not bad, Sir,” Sam murmured. His brow furrowed and she mumbled, “Sorry. Forgot.”  
  
Sam closed her eyes. It only seemed like only a moment passed, but, when she opened them again, it was dark. A small light still burned somewhere. She turned her head a bit and saw Jack on the cot next to hers.  
  
She started to smile then realized something was wrong. Janet was hovering in the dark beside him. She was checking his pulse. Everything about the doctor said she was exhausted and afraid.  
  
“Janet?” Sam croaked. “What’s wrong with him?”  
  
“We found him. Teal’c dug him out of the rubble of the tower, Sam,” Janet answered. “I’ve done everything I can think of to help him. I’d hoped his symbiot would save him, but it’s not working. He’s getting worse.”  
  
“No,” Sam argued. “He spoke to me. I saw him standing by my bed just … a while ago.”  
  
Janet shook her head and said, “I think you were dreaming, Sam. He hasn’t regained consciousness, since we found him. Daniel has been wild to pump him for information on the location of the time machine, but …. I’m so sorry, but I don’t think he’ll make it Sam.”  
  
Through the night, Sam listened to Jack beside her, wondering if his next breath might not come. Then, just before sunrise, she heard him stir.  
  
“Sam?” he whispered. “You there?”  
  
“Yes, Jack,” she answered. “I’m here.”  
  
“There are some things I need to say,” he whispered.  
  
“About the time machine?” she prompted.  
  
“No,” he answered. “There’s no time machine, Sam, or I would have used it. I can’t believe you guys fell for that. I told Daniel that tall tale, so you’d come find me if it happened the same way … again.”  
  
His voice was sad, so sad that Sam wanted to reach for him, touch him and tell him not to speak. She couldn’t move. She was too tired and it hurt to breathe. So, she listened and didn’t move as his soft words broke her heart.  
  
“I sent a message, Sam,” he whispered. “Did Daniel find it?”  
  
“Yes,” Sam said, “but the note was destroyed. I never got to read it. Daniel saw enough to know you wanted him to keep me from coming for you. Is that true? Did you really think anyone, anything could stop me?”  
  
She heard him growl, “For crying out loud, Sam. There are more important things. Your note said you were pregnant. That’s why I told you … told Daniel to keep you from coming. Our kid.”  
  
Sam was about to tell him the truth, that she wasn’t pregnant, but he continued. “God, I wanted you to come. At first I thought about nothing else, but finding a way back to you. It was all I could do, for a very long time.”  
  
“I realized, after a while, that I wasn’t smart enough, Sam. I couldn’t make it without help. So, I figured I’d go to England, I’d find the Yult. I’d make them help, but it didn’t work out like I thought.”  
  
“When I found the Yult, I saw it. They’d do anything to find a way back. If I explained, I might get home but what would I find? They’d have the secret to time travel. They’d know it’s possible. I couldn’t put something like that in the hands of Goa’uld. Could I?”  
  
“I’m not as smart as you, nowhere near, but even I knew that’s dangerous. They might change things … important things. I couldn’t risk … everything. That was what was at stake, everything I’d known, everyone I loved, all of it. So, I stopped trying. I just gave up, Sam. I kept my head down and stayed alive. I shouldn’t have even done that, but I had to see you one more time. And now it’s changed. I screwed it up. Forgive me, please.”  
  
“There’s nothing to forgive. You found a way back, Jack,” Sam whispered. “You’re here now. We’re together.”  
  
She turned her head and saw his eyes glowing softly, like warm amber in the dark. Then, Sam heard his sigh and slowly, the warm glow faded.  
  
 _ **Chapter 6. Fire and Ice**_  
  
Jack hunched in his damp cave and poked at dinner with a stick.  
  
‘Red algae and limpets,’ he thought. ‘Yum.’  
  
It bubbled and steamed in a miniature caldera, conveniently located just inside the cave entrance. Jack had discovered the cave in the maze of twisting tunnels entwining the volcanic vents.  
  
‘All things considered,’ he reminded himself as he tapped the stick on the surface of the glutinous mass, ‘it isn’t so bad. Okay, so maybe there’s no fireplace, but there are about a hundred hot tubs and all the other comforts of home: food, shelter, heat and plenty of fresh water, as long as it rains.’ And it did rain. Incessantly.  
  
Jack gave the algae another vigorous stir and sprinkled in a handful of small snails -- sand, shells and all. ‘If the rain ever stops, I can capture steam from the volcanic vents,’ he reasoned, knowing the need would probably never arise. It would never stop raining. Never.  
  
The wet, cold weather was not his main complaint. He was bored stiff and for the first time in years he felt utterly alone.  
  
Like most days, Jack sat under the dripping rock ledge and gazed across deserted, rock-studded sand. The gray-sand beach stretched down to pounding gray-green surf. Snarls of algae collected at the water’s wandering edge. Some days there was more seaweed, some days less.  
  
Quick gray and white seabirds raced up and down on stilts a step ahead of rushing waves. Tuxedo clad seagulls twisted overhead and cried desolate protests. It continued up and down the coast as far as Jack could see. Straight ahead was open ocean.  
  
Under other circumstances, Jack might have found the wild emptiness beautiful. At the moment, all he saw was gray sand, gray clouds and gray ocean. It fit his mood to perfection.  
  
He’d scrupulously avoided the Icelanders since he’d scrambled out of the surf almost two months before. He’d seen people. Sometimes they strolled in ones and twos along the beach or clambered among the rocks, but they hadn’t seen him.  
  
Jack worked diligently. He knew he had to keep busy. He shaved in the morning. The fine-edged knife he’d seized the night he jumped ship was far too long to serve as a razor, but he made do. Once a week he scrubbed his only piece of clothing, a threadbare wool tunic. He also deloused himself with immense care and bathed in a man-sized hot pool, morning and evening.  
  
Jack O’Neill wasn’t squeamish, far from it. Even so, he hated parasites of every size, shape and description. He’d staggered out of the sea with a few thousand unwelcome passengers. The crew had been lousy and when he awoke on the ship, he too was infested.  
  
On ship, he’d just scratched and tried to ignore the problem. Once he was free, however, he took immediate steps. He’d have shaved his head, as well as his beard, if necessary to defeat them, but the lice deserted him. Jack credited steaming hot baths twice a day in the sulfur-rich pools.  
  
He also experimented with cooking. He subsisted mostly on thick, slippery blades of algae that washed onto the shore in volumes after every storm. The tough, rubbery seaweed actually tasted better raw, but Jack kept experimenting. It helped fill the day.  
  
He gathered larger shellfish occasionally, if no one was around to see him. Dense clusters of blue-black mussels encrusted the rocky shore where it jutted into the surf. The mussels were salty, tasty and plentiful. Jack liked them raw or steamed, but collecting them was risky. It meant going out in daylight. He’d risked it twice, however, when he thought he was going to lose it if he didn’t do something.  
  
Even so, most days Jack was trapped all day. Day after day, in a cramped, dark, steamy cave, he had too much time to think. Inevitably his thoughts turned to Sam. Was she okay? What would she do in his place? He knew she’d find a way home if she were here. She always did. And if she couldn’t, it wouldn’t really matter. If she were here, Jack realized, he’d be home.  
  
When he caught himself brooding on lost opportunities, he focused instead on thinking of a way to get home. Each time his strategies either hit a dead-end or turned back to the obvious solution – ‘Find the damn Yult. Force them to help.’  
  
From what Mrs. Kennedy had said, if this was actually around the year 500 AD, the Yult were probably in England, or maybe in Western France. Jack figured he would check every monastery and abbey in England, until he found them. If he didn’t find them in England, he’d cross the Channel and keep searching.  
  
He’d have to wait for spring. The low-hanging clouds and ceaseless rain told him it was already too late to sail. Winter was coming soon. In spring he’d steal a boat and set sail for Norway, then he’d turn south and hug the coast until he reached the British Isles. It was a good, simple plan. He just had to survive until spring.  
  
Aside from the bleak prospect of a long, dull winter trapped in a cave, only one thing worried him. Either he hadn’t found the Yult before, in the other timeline, or it hadn’t worked. Otherwise, Gorlagon wouldn’t have waited out the fifteen hundred years. Would he?  
  
‘Unless there’s another reason,’ Jack worried. ‘Unless, there’s something I’m missing. What?’  
  
It was a moonless night. Jack watched the sun set to the left of his cave entrance. The bruised colors on the horizon faded to grays and deep purple. Still he waited. When it was truly dark, he slipped through the mouth of the cave, stood and stretched.  
  
He hugged the rocks as far as he could to the water’s edge, dragging a swath of seaweed fronds to wipe away his tracks.  
  
Jack gathered a handful of shells and constructed a very specific pattern in the sand – a triangle with an oval at the tip. -- the gate symbol for Earth. When he returned it would tell him he’d reached home.  
  
Then he trotted down to the water, spent a half hour stretching and doing calisthenics that he couldn’t manage in the cramped cave. When he was loose and warm, he stood and ran down the shore.  
  
It was dangerous to go out, even at night, but he needed to stay in shape, if he was going to survive the voyage. Also he craved exercise. It was his only release from the endless waiting. It was the only time he didn’t have to keep himself from thinking too much. It was the only thing that made this self-imposed exile rather than simple imprisonment. So, he ran by starlight, hugging the water’s edge where the surf would wipe his tracks from the sand.  
  
Time passed until, one moonless night, Jack heard something as he sprinted through the surf. Howling. Dogs. ‘They’re too close,’ he realized.  
  
He picked up the pace, but the sounds grew stronger. He was tempted to sprint for the rocky cliffs, but he raced into the sea, instead. He crouched low in the cold, crashing froth, holding the knife underwater so it wouldn’t glint in the weak starlight.  
  
The dogs howled and yapped on the shore. Jack scanned the beach. He couldn’t see them, but he heard whining. The sound told him they were very close. He imagined them straining toward him.  
  
A man spoke. Jack couldn’t follow the dialect. He felt the man’s gaze on him and hunkered lower in the waves. Moments passed, but then Jack heard a gruff curse, a sharp yelp and the sounds died away.  
  
Jack waited, but there was no other sound, no danger. So he sloshed out of the surf. He knelt at the edge of the waves and noted the footprints in the sand led away from his cave.  
  
Satisfied that he wouldn’t encounter the man again, he sprinted down the shore. As he ran, he decided he’d been very lucky and he knew he had to leave immediately.  
  
He wouldn’t return to the cave, no reason to return now that he was leaving. There was a village down the coast, but the man and his dogs went that way. So, Jack went the other direction, certain that he’d find another village along the water.  
  
He jogged through the night. It was very late when buildings appeared on the shoreline ahead. Jack slowed to a walk and approached cautiously. Icelanders all kept dogs. They went out at odd hours. Warriors to the last, the entire village would be armed and after him at the first hint of trouble. So, Jack slipped forward as silent as a shadow.  
  
He moved between huts, heading for the docks that had to be somewhere on the shore ahead. There were no sounds of people. No lights burned. No shadows indicated that anyone was awake.  
  
At first, the silence pleased him. He was looking for a particular ship. He’d seen a small craft pass a few days ago, heading for winter harbor. He could handle her alone. All he needed was a steady wind.  
  
The silence continued unbroken as he searched. As time passed, something about the village felt wrong. The absolute stillness was unsettling.  
  
Even so, Jack almost yelped in surprise when his bare foot came down on a corpse. He hadn’t seen it. The body of a full-grown man lay where he’d died, face down beside a tall ship, hidden in pitch-black shadows. Jack knelt and examined the body. The man was cold and stiff. Jack turned him over and peered down at the face and hands. No wounds. No signs of scavengers. Not yet. So, the man had died within the past few hours. Jack searched the man, took his daggers and a short broad sword, and slipped them into his belt.  
  
“Crap,” he swore softly as he stood and crept on. ‘What happened to that guy?’ he wondered. Then, ahead, he saw another body.  
  
‘Aw, crap!’ Jack thought. ‘This is not possible.’  
  
Impossible, but there was no denying the corpse. This man had also died very recently. A fine sleet began to fall. It quickly covered the corpse with a thin glaze of ice.  
  
Jack hesitated. He wore only a threadbare tunic and belt, nothing else. It hadn’t been bad in the cave. It had been bearable while he was running along the shore. Now he was getting damned cold.  
  
Jack grimaced, bent and pulled off the dead man’s boots. He slipped them onto his bare feet. He hadn’t worn decent footgear in months. He also took the man’s sword, knives and scabbards, as well as a soft leather pouch of coins and another containing some sort of grain. Then, after only a brief moment of squeamishness, he took the heavy wool cloak, as well.  
  
Jack settled the thick cloak over his shoulders. It felt odd to be warmly clothed, almost as odd as being the only living person in a town full of dead people. He’d been in situations like this before, but that had been war.  
  
He had no idea what had killed this town, but it wasn’t war. If they’d died in battle, there would be blood, lots of blood. Also, the bodies would not still be armed.  
  
Jack moved on warily. He finally located a small ship of the type he could sail solo. There, too, he discovered bodies, including a boy in his early teens. Everyone, young and old it seemed, was dead. It reminded him of the gruesome experience he’d had on PX … Suddenly, Jack remembered Cassie’s world.  
  
He flung off the cloak. “Shit!” he cursed aloud. Cassie’s people had all been killed by an epidemic created by Nurrti.  
  
“Shit!” he swore again, dropping to the ground and jerking off the boots. He was gripped by pure dread. He’d had the same reaction when he turned over Cassie’s kinsman, seen appalling sores on the dead man’s face and realized he’d been exposed to some horrid disease.  
  
“Dammit! Stupid, Jack!” he hissed as he stripped off his contaminated clothes, knelt on the rubble by the waterside and scrubbed his hands and face vigorously in the icy salt water. “Dammit! Why didn’t I think?”  
  
Jack was blue with cold when reason reasserted itself. ‘If this is contagious,’ he realized, ‘I’m already dead.’  
  
He staggered out of the water, pulled on his shabby tunic and collected the cloak and boots.  
  
“Hell, at this rate, I’ll probably die of pneumonia anyway,” he snorted aloud as he donned the clothes. He stooped and searched the men on the ground for weapons, found several more fine swords and knives and stuck them into his belt. Then he clambered up into the ship.  
  
The rising sun was coloring the horizon as he checked her out. There were no provisions aboard. He would have to load enough food and water for his voyage to Norway. Only 650 miles to the East, he figured he’d reach Norway in well under a month, if the winds were right. If not, he’d probably die in a storm before he could starve.  
  
Jack found more men aboard, all dead, and dragged them to the edge of the boat. He was about to tip the bodies into the sea, but suddenly he couldn’t. It seemed too callous.  
  
Instead, he rolled them off the deck onto the dock and then scrambled down after them. He looked around in daylight and saw dozens of dead men tumbled along the quay. He shuddered and wondered briefly whether the sweat trickling down his neck was from exertion, panic or the same deadly illness that had claimed every living person in the village.  
  
‘Too late,’ Jack decided and he walked past the bodies toward the village above to find provisions.  
  
As Jack explored the village, he found dead people by the dozens. Mostly they’d died as family groups, old people, people in their prime, children. Even the dogs and rats were dead.  
  
The kids were the worst part. Seeing them, Jack knew he had to bury them, and then he figured if he buried the kids, he had to bury their families, as well.  
  
“I have nothing but time,” he told himself as he set to work.  
  
Up the slope behind the village, smoldering fires indicated where the village housed its dead. Even without the fires, it was easy to recognize, after years of tagging along behind Daniel, listening to him yatter on about burial mounds, burial chambers, burial pyres, and on and on. These folks used burial mounds, it seemed, topped off by a bonfire.  
  
Jack found the graves in all states of completion. Villagers had literally died trying to bury their kin. Whatever this bug was, it worked fast. Jack found people slumped over their kinsmen. Some had died before they could seal the long, clay-lined chambers. Others had managed to seal the grave, but hadn’t carried all the stones. A few had completed all but setting the blaze.  
  
“Okay, campers,” Jack murmured. “Let’s get a little closure on this whole ‘everlasting rest’ thing.”  
  
First Jack moved all the bodies he could find out of the village. It was miserable, heavy work. The sleet kept falling, making the ground treacherous. The bodies were stiff and awkward to move and there were more than a hundred people in the village.  
  
Jack piled the bodies on one side of the burial place and he finished closing up the mounds that others had begun. First, it was a matter of just lighting a funeral fire on top of the stones. For others, stones had to be piled and wood stacked before he could finish the job. For still more, clay had to be applied, followed by the stones, wood and firing, and so forth. By the end of a week he was digging entire graves, lining them, closing them, covering them with stone and wood and firing the wood.  
  
As he worked, Jack noticed signs of thick black smoke up and down the coast. ‘Whatever this is,’ he realized, ‘it’s taking out the entire population.’  
  
Jack didn’t expect those still alive in the other villages to bother him. Those folks had enough trouble, he figured. They weren’t likely to come looking for more.  
  
Even so, each night he stumbled into the village, rummaged for food among the deserted larders, ate and then collapsed in a hammock he rigged aboard his ship. He slept with a heavy sword at his side and the ship ready to sail at a moments notice, just in case the neighbors came calling.  
  
Each morning, he ate a cold breakfast of stale bread and water and returned to his task. Finally, after ten days, it was done. The last villager was buried. The rocks were piled high on the last grave.  
  
Jack squatted on his heels and considered the grave. “I’m sorry, folks. I’ve done the best I can for you. I just hope this wasn’t something I brought here. If it is …” he stopped and rubbed his eyes. He was suddenly very tired. “I’m sorry, but I need to bury this too. I don’t mean any disrespect. It’s important and I don’t know any other way, I swear to god. Look, it’s not anything … bad.”  
  
Jack rubbed his eyes again and sighed. Then, he carefully removed several rocks and took up a large handful of red clay. He pulled the baggy from inside his tunic, held it a moment, letting his eyes trace along Sam’s words. Then he laid it flat against the grave, plastered a thick layer of clay over it and piled stones on top high and deep. He wanted to be certain that wild animals wouldn’t disturb the tomb where he’d buried Sam’s letter and, on the back of that letter, his note to Daniel.  
  
Jack worked at the edge of a high cliff with wild winter surf crashing below. Volcanoes punctuated the skyline inland, emitting thin columns of pale gray smoke, and the sleet changed to snow. Light white flakes flitted around his raw, clay-covered hands.  
  
Above, Thor watched. He was totally absorbed by the subject’s actions. He’d been watching for days and he could scarcely believe the time and effort the subject had spent to bury strangers.  
  
The villagers were dead, beyond caring. Yet, the man laid them out as reverently as if they were his own tribe. The subject did not know these villagers; he had no contact with them. Thor knew for a fact that he’d hidden from them. Even so, the subject worked like a son to lay these people to rest according to the requirements of their elaborate customs.  
  
Compassion? Could it exist in this being? The possibility shocked the Asguard, and thrilled him.  
  
Thor accepted that the subject was a formidable warrior. His memories proved him a highly proficient killer. The Asguard had reviewed the gut-wrenching violence of the man’s life. Only a being of extraordinary strength, courage and audacity could have survived such a life. The subject had managed.  
  
Compassion in such a race, however, was unforeseen. None of the memories Thor had reviewed, so far, hinted at the possibility of such behavior. Still, Thor had watched as the drama below unfolded.  
  
The subject had no idea he was being observed; yet he toiled for days to bury a village of strangers. Neither friendship nor blood-ties demanded it. Nonetheless, the subject laid them to rest, apparently out of respect.  
  
‘Could this human be more than a brutal savage?’ Thor wondered. ‘Pity, mercy, empathy – These are qualities of sophisticated beings. Perhaps,’ Thor realized, ‘I saw what I expected.’  
  
‘Is he an Ancient? Might the Asguard have stood beside such beings as this man?’ Thor considered the possibility, but he couldn’t quite accept it. The subject’s memories showed that he was a dangerous barbarian from a dangerous, barbarous race.  
  
‘Yet,’ Thor reminded himself, ‘A dozen funeral pyres blaze below. Are they proof to the contrary? A hundred graves attest to this human’s reverence for life and his compassion for the dead.’  
  
Thor moved a stone on his control panel and, for the nth time, watched his own face in an impossible conversation with the subject. Freer was there, too.  
  
It baffled Thor, as he watched them all speaking the same unintelligible tongue. He had not, yet, deciphered the language. He didn’t recall the event. Since, Asguard do not forget, he was certain he’d never had the conversation.  
  
Several days ago, when he’d first come across the memory, he contacted Freer. She did not recall the event either and had been almost rude when he asked if she understood the language. She didn’t.  
  
Even so, Thor watched himself greet the subject on the wall-sized screen. He spoke words he didn’t comprehend. ‘You have already taken the first step toward becoming the 5th Race.’  
  
“The 5th Race,” Thor repeated as he watched Jack stand and take his hand. ‘What,’ Thor wondered, ‘do those words mean?’  
  
Thor shifted the stone and the subject reappeared on the screen. He was filthy, covered with red clay and soot, and he was making his way slowly down the steep slope into the empty village. It was snowing on the island.  
  
“We shall see,” Thor promised. “I shall watch and learn precisely what manner of being you might be. Perhaps, beneath your violent exterior, smolders a soul with the potential for true greatness. ”  
  
Jack staggered down the slope, trembling with fatigue and thoroughly miserable. Black despair ate at him.  
  
He hadn’t felt it in years, but he remembered: the faces, the burials, Charlie’s pathetically small casket, sand-washed graves in the desert; body bags in the jungle. He remembered every morbid detail. All good people and all lost because of him. Lost, but not gone. The ghosts walked beside him tonight.  
  
Jack reached the side of his ship. He sat, slumped on the quay, and looked up at her. She was a sturdy little boat. She was ready. Enough water and food was aboard for at least two months. The trip should take under four weeks. Jack had checked and repaired the rigging. The hull was tight. The sail was new. He’d stored a second sail and at least a mile of new rope.  
  
There was just one more thing to do. Then, he could go.  
  
Snowflakes fell like white petals on the black mud as Jack stood and walked to the nearest hut. He knelt and struck a shower of flint sparks in the shelter of the hut. He sprayed sparks into a fat-soaked torch he’d left there the day before. The sparks caught and the fat-soaked reeds flared into flame. Jack lifted its hungry tongues to the edge of the thatch roof. It smoked and then blazed.  
  
The flakes hissed in the torch as Jack strode through the dead village, firing each roof he passed. Then he turned back along the harbor front and fired the ships. By the time he reached his chosen vessel his footsteps in the raw mud were already buried under a clean white mantel.  
  
He waited to be sure the village would burn to the ground. He didn’t want travelers entering the empty houses and contracting the deadly contagion. Then, when fire was roaring all around him, Jack climbed into his ship.  
  
A stiff breeze blew out to sea. The tide was with him. He hoisted the stone anchor and the small ship rose eagerly. He told himself he should sleep ashore, but he cast off. Then he set the sail, telling himself to delay departure until morning, but every instinct screamed, ‘Go.’  
  
Wind filled the sail. Jack turned the tiller and the ship swung away from the quay. As the ship moved into the dark harbor, the burning village tinted her sails copper and gold in the gathering gloom.

_**Chapter 7. A Snake By Any Other Name**_  
  
“That’s Goa’uld!” Sam said as she rolled off her cot. “What’s happening, Teal’c?”  
  
“Doctor Fraiser said you were not to move, Major Carter,” Teal’c rumbled, helping to steady the Major on her feet. “You should lie down.”  
  
“That is not Yult weaponry,” Sam repeated, shaking off Teal’c’s assistance. “And I am not going to lounge around while the Goa’uld blow us to hell. Now what’s going on?”  
  
“We are under attack,” Teal’c admitted. “It is Goa’uld.”  
  
Carter grunted as she hobbled. The intermittent rumbling overhead told her the surface was taking a pounding. She glanced up at the crystalline roof. No movement. The crystals above seemed stable, at least for the moment.  
  
“The surface forces are under attack,” Teal’c stated.  
  
“Whose forces?”  
  
“Yult,” Teal’c assured her. “SG personnel are all deep underground, Major Carter. We are safe here for the moment. The Goa’uld have been unable to successfully penetrate these depths.”  
  
“Oh?” Sam asked turning back to look at him. “Why not?”  
  
Before Teal’c could explain, a cloaked figure swept around the corner ahead and interrupted.  
  
“Because we erase any tunnels they penetrate, usually before the Goa’uld can pull back.”  
  
“Jack!” Sam smiled. He stepped close and took her hand. Then he glanced at Teal’c, nodded his head and said, “Teal’c.”  
  
Sam frowned. Jack wasn’t smiling and Teal’c stood too close to her.  
  
‘Is he expecting trouble?’ Sam didn’t see any threat, but Teal’c didn’t move for a long moment.  
  
Then, as if reaching a decision, Teal’c nodded a terse acknowledgment. Still, the tension remained between them. It made no sense. Sam let it go. She was tired. Maybe she was misunderstanding. She focused instead on what Jack had told her.  
  
“Erase them?” she repeated.  
  
“Yeah,” he said with a hint of pride. “Reverse. Erase. Whatever you want to call it, we undo the tunnel making process. It’s really slick. We’ve nailed three ring devices so far. That alone has slowed their invasion to a crawl.”  
  
“How?” Sam asked, then she leaned against the tunnel wall.  
  
Jack saw her stagger and slipped his arm around her waist to support her. “Later,” he said softly. “First, you have a Doctor’s appointment to keep.”  
  
Sam let him half-carry her. She wondered vaguely where they were going, how in the world they’d used tunnels to destroy Goa’uld, but feeling Jack so close, so alive, preoccupied her.

They turned a sharp corner and, in a few more steps, Sam saw Janet Fraiser sipping a cup of tea, or what passed for it in P3X-667. Janet glanced up as the trio approached and smiled.

“Sam,” she said warmly, “Glad you are back with us at last.”

“How long was I out?” Sam asked wearily as Jack lowered her to a crystal bench.

“Oh, a couple of days,” Fraiser admitted. “You had me worried at first, Major, but this will make a big difference.”

Sam realized then that the Doctor was resting her teacup on the lid of a simple gold sarcophagus.

“Where’d you get that?” Sam asked eyeing the device warily.

“Gorlagon had it here,” Fraiser replied. “I used it to save his life.”

“You’re not going to use that on me?” Sam declared.

“Easy, Sam,” Fraiser soothed her. “It’s not Goa’uld, it’s Yult.”

“What’s the difference?” Sam demanded.

Fraiser paused, sipped her tea and then said, “Daniel got me started on this line of research, Sam. Before he left for Iceland, he compiled everything we knew about the Yult. I had some blood work on Doctor Angstrom. He put it in the report and, when I saw it there, I realized it might lead me to something useful.”

“I’m not following you,” Sam admitted.

Janet nodded and forged ahead. “I also had blood work on Jack O’Neill,” she glanced at Gorlagon and shrugged, “I mean the other Jack O’Neill, following his most recent sarcophagus treatment by the Yult. And, you’ll recall, I did several workups on you, during the time you were blended with Jolinar. Also, we gathered data on all the SGC males from Hathor’s visit, as well as blood drawn from Doctor Angstrom, from several Tok’Ra and from Daniel Jackson, after he returned from P3R-636 and had to undergo detoxification for sarcophagus addiction.”

Sam was nodding now.

“I went through all this data,” Janet said, “I found a pattern.”

“What pattern?” Sam asked, fully engaged now.

“A significant trend in certain key brain chemicals. I found them in everyone exposed to a Goa’uld-style sarcophagus. There was nothing, however, no changes at all in these chemicals in humans carrying any symbiot -- Yult or Tok’Ra or Goa’uld -- or using a Yult-style device. In fact, the blood parameters evident in Doctor Jackson’s records are a perfect match for the same parameters in Doctor Angstrom, Apophis, and Chronis. Jack O’Neill’s … the other Jack O’Neill, I mean, his blood work showed no change from the Yult device, and a significant change from the exposure to Hathor’s device, after she’d transformed him into a Jaffa.”

Teal’c had listened silently, but finally had enough.

“What does this prove, Doctor Fraiser?” he asked.

“Teal’c these data show a highly consistent difference between Yult and Goa’uld. It’s not that Yult have an immature larva, or at least not only that. It’s their sarcophagus. These blood levels prove the Tok’Ra belief that a Goa’uld sarcophagus robs something from humans.”

“Steals your soul,” Sam said softly, glancing at Jack.

“Your kalach,” Teal’c stated. “Your spirit,” glowering at O’Neill.  
“According to the blood work, the Yult sarcophagus doesn’t,” Fraiser jumped in with a nervous glance at Teal’c.  
“Like they say, ‘You gotta have soul’,” Jack muttered as he stepped forward, pressed a panel and the sarcophagus slid open.  
“So,” he turned and whispered in Sam’s ear, “you’re next.” He lifted her and carefully placed her inside.  
Sam watched the top slide shut. She closed her eyes, but an instant later felt a blinding light against her eyelids. She couldn’t seem to move her arms or legs. For a moment she felt overwhelming claustrophobia, but it passed and she drifted into something like sleep.  
  
Sometime later, the thrumming stopped. The lid slid back and Sam tried moving and it didn’t hurt so much. “Sweet,” Sam murmured.  
  
Janet smiled down at her. “Better?”  
  
Sam nodded and Janet continued, “This gadget is going to come in handy. Now out you go. I want you back for another treatment tomorrow. Don’t forget, okay?”  
  
Sam nodded and scrambled out. “Where’s Jack?” she asked, but the words were hardly out before he rounded the bend in the tunnel.  
  
“Better?” he asked.  
  
“Yeah,” Sam nodded. “What’s going on?”  
  
“The Goa’uld are still pulverizing the surface. They haven’t quite figured out how to infiltrate the tunnels, not yet.”  
  
“You were going to explain that to me,” Sam reminded him.  
  
“Yep,” Jack grinned, “As soon as they use their rings, we deconstruct the tunnel. We figured out a way to speed up the process.”  
  
Sam grinned. ‘Why didn’t the Tok’Ra think of that?’ she wondered as she said, “Cool.”  
  
Jack smiled back, but there was a nervous tension behind his warm eyes. “Yeah, well, we’ve just about worn out that strategy. We need another approach and we need it pretty damned quick.”  
  
Suddenly, as if to emphasize the urgency of his statement, a shuddering scream sounded overhead and then reverberated through the tunnel. The vibration was so strong that the tunnel walls trembled.  
  
Jack leaned forward, shielding Sam with his arm. As he pulled her down to crouch on the floor, crystals shattered around them and the screaming grew to an agonizing shriek.  
  
Then it just stopped. Sam uncovered her head and peered through the dust-filled haze.  
  
“What the hell was that? What’s our situation,” Sam over-enunciated, wiggling a finger in her ear to try to clear her hearing.  
  
Jack squinted, grasped her forearm and answered, “Can you move?”  
  
“Yes,” she hollered back, nodding. “Move where? Where are we going?”  
  
Jack didn’t bother to answer. He turned to Fraiser, who was crouched beside the sarcophagus, and said, “Stay put, Doc.”  
  
Then he stood and stumbled through the rubble of shattered quartz. Sam followed, figuring she’d might as well wait for their hearing to recover before she pressed for details.  
  
They scrambled through the partially collapsed tunnel into a larger chamber. Somewhere off in another part of the system, Sam heard the same penetrating scream, but at a much lower register.  
  
The Physicist inside murmured, ‘we’re just getting the low level vibration. It must be pretty far off. How big are these tunnel systems?’  
  
She turned to ask how far the tunnels penetrated the planet, but Jack spoke first.  
  
“So, here’s the situation. There are about a hundred Jaffa on the surface, guarding the gate. They’ve effectively cut off your escape route. Until now, we were building new tunnels faster than they could collapse them. Like I said, they haven’t been able to establish their forces inside the tunnel system. Not yet.”  
  
“So they’ve changed strategies,” Sam added.  
  
“Guess so,” Jack agreed. “What was that, by the way?”  
  
“Sounds like they’re searching for a specific resonance frequency for the crystals. If they can establish a sympathetic vibration within the crystals, the tunnels will magnify the sound until, ultimately, they vibrate too hard. Then the structure will lose integrity.”  
  
Jack glowered, rubbed debris out of his shaggy hair and said nothing.  
  
“How in the world did they find you?” Sam asked. “You’ve only been here a few weeks.”  
  
He gazed at her from beneath his lowered brows and then said sheepishly. “Yeah, well. I guess you could say that I had some pent up aggression. After we gated through, I told M and the rest that I was going my own way. The tried to stop me, but I persuaded some of the Yult that the Goa’uld problem is really their mess and they really ought to help me clean it up.”  
  
“How many joined you?” Sam asked, remembering Teal’c and Bractac’s pitiful results on Chulak.  
  
“More than you’d expect,” Jack avoided specifics. His frown deepened and Sam’s gut clenched.  
  
“How many?” she pressed.  
  
“About thirty,” Jack admitted softly.  
  
“And so, with thirty recruits,” she exploded, “you went out looking for Goa’uld!” Sam said. “Who?”  
  
“I’ll be sure to introduce you to the guys,” Jack mumbled staring at his boots, “before you head back to the SGC.”  
  
“No! I mean who’s up there trying to kill you!” Sam barked, pointing towards the ceiling.  
  
Jack looked up, wordlessly mimed a big ‘oh,’ and said, “Not ‘who’ Sam, Shu. Good old Shu,” Jack smiled at his own lame joke. “Blonde dude with a really tacky hat made of these huge ostrich feathers. His sister, Tefnut, is up there too. She’s a real beast, a lion to be specific. Well, it’s a she, so she’s a lion-ess, actually.”  
  
“A lioness,” Sam said.  
  
Jack nodded without much enthusiasm. “Anyway, I did some recon, bumped into these two and figured an overdressed sister / brother circus act is as good a place as any to start removing evil from the Universe. They’re not exactly Cirque du Soleil.”  
  
Sam smiled, shaking her head sadly. She couldn’t stay mad at this man. She never could. “So, now their fleet is overhead?” Sam asked.  
  
Jack nodded and said, “Yeah. I need a way to take them out. Otherwise we’ll never get you back home. Any ideas, Major?”  
  
Sam took Jack’s hand, gave it a quick squeeze and smiled slyly.  
  
“Lose the ‘Major’,” she said. “Jack, I’m not going back. As of right now, I’m retired. Officially, unofficially -- I don’t care which it is. I’ll send word back with Daniel and Teal’c. If the military wants to drag me back into active service, they’ll have to find me first.”  
  
“What about … everything you’re leaving on Earth?” Jack asked softly.  
  
“Dad’s out here, Jack” Sam said, “and so are you. There’s nothing back there for me. Everything that counts is out here. I’m not letting you go again, not ever.”  
  
He grinned and squeezed back, saying, “You don’t know how long I’ve wanted to hear you say that Sam. Then he wrapped his arms around her and gave her a long, tender hug.  
  
As he held her close he whispered into her hair. “By the way, it isn’t thirty Yult. You didn’t let me finish.”  
  
Sam closed her eyes, expecting the worst. “How many exactly Jack?”  
  
“It’s thirty thousand, Sam.” Jack leaned back and fixed her with a triumphant look. “All the Yult joined up … and they’re out rounding up a few friends. We just have to hang on for a few days, until they get here.”  
  
Sam blinked hard, trying to keep her emotions in check. She needed to focus on the problem. ‘But, god it’s so good to have him back,’ she thought, ‘getting me into impossible situations for perfectly wonderful reasons.’  
  
“We need to focus on the resonance issue,” she said to buy time to think.  
  
To her shock Jack replied, “Yeah, that occurred to me, too. I wondered about altering the tunnel size. What do you think?”  
  
“I’d focus on the crystal size. If we vary the crystalline forms…” Sam stopped. “How’d you learn Physics?” she demanded.  
  
Jack just grinned and said, “Fifteen hundred years is a very long time Sam. I finally had time to read … a lot of time. So, what about ‘varying the forms’?”  
  
Sam frowned and continued, “The internal matrix of a crystal is the key here.”  
  
“But, that’s determined by the raw materials that comprise a crystal. Right?” Jack asked.  
  
“Yes,” Sam admitted, “but what if we changed materials?”  
  
“How? The tunnel-building technology converts whatever native materials are in place,” Jack countered. “We can’t change that without moving to a different place.”  
  
“And if we could move to a different place all of this would be moot,” Sam finished his thought. “I know, but your assumption is wrong, Jack. We can change the nature of the native materials, at least enough to alter the resonance frequency.”  
  
Jack grinned and said, “Sweet! How?”  
  
“Well, we’re gunna need some stuff,” Sam replied.  
  



	6. Part 6 - Gods & Heroes

  
Author's notes: The Gods lend a hand and things work out ... sort of...  


* * *

**Part VI: Gods & Heroes**  
  
 _ **Chapter 1. Pachem  
**_  
Jack stood still as a post, staring at a cluster of angry natives. The men were short, broadchested and deeply muscled. They didn’t move either. They didn’t need to move. They already had arrows nocked and their bows fully drawn. Long bows. Welsh long bows -- The most powerful weapon of the Age.  
  
“Go ahead,” Jack muttered as his knees wobbled. “Make my day.” Then he collapsed on the rubble beach.  
  
Jack opened his eyes when he heard bells -- church bells -- and the rustle of many people moving silently. He groaned and tried to sit up. A withered old face leaned over him, smiled a toothless grin and muttered, “Pachem.” The crone pressed a bony hand against his chest.  
  
“Pachem,” Jack groaned, letting the crone push him back. He knew that word. It meant ‘peace.’  
  
“Dona nobis pachem,” he muttered. ‘Give us peace:’ the lyrics to an old Christmas carol, a Latin carol.  
  
The wrinkled old woman leaned over him, or was it an old man? It had a sprinkling of chin whiskers, but so did Jack’s elderly Aunt Mae. It wore a long brown smock, Jack noted, like a nun’s habit.  
  
The face leaned low and muttered again, “Pachem!” This time it sounded more like an order than a blessing.  
  
“Dona … nobis … pachem,” Jack replied softly. The crumpled old face split into a merry grin. The hag rose and hustled off.  
  
She returned a moment later with several clearly male figures. All wore heavy brown smocks, hooded cloaks and little round skullcaps. Jack swung his legs over the wooden platform and tried to sit up. The cluster of clerics, at least they looked like holy men, let him sit up. The room was spinning, but the crone helped him stand.  
  
“My name’s O’Neill, Jack O’Neill. You saved my life,” Jack said as he struggled to his feet, “thank you.”  
  
The tallest of the clerics, a man about 5 foot 5 inches, gazed up at Jack, frowned and announced, “Pachem!”  
  
“Right back at ‘cha,” Jack replied smiling what he hoped was a friendly grin. “Pachem!”  
  
That brought a group grin, so he continued, “Dona … nobis … pachem!”  
  
More smiles followed. Unfortunately, Jack realized, those were the only words in the entire carol. It just kept repeating them over and over. So he took another stab, “E Pluribus Unum!”  
  
The group looked astonished, repeated the phrase, and nodded enthusiastically.  
  
Jack figured he was on a roll, so he added, “Semper Fi!”  
  
The clerics looked puzzled, until he corrected his jargon into real Latin. “Fidelis, Semper Fidelis!”  
  
More smiles all round.  
  
‘Well this is encouraging,’ Jack thought as he dredged up another last scrap of Latin. ‘Daniel always makes it seem so tricky.’  
  
“Vini, vidi, vici,” he announced grandly.  
  
The men looked dumbfounded, then furious. Too late, Jack remembered that ‘vini, vidi, vici,’ means ‘I came, I saw, I conquered.’  
  
A sharp blow from one of the cleric’s staffs brought him to his knees. Jack groaned, fell to his side and rolled slowly onto his back. He gazed up at the man who’d struck him. The little guy looked quite a lot bigger from this angle. Jack was tired and hungry and he needed friends.  
  
He smiled weakly and said softly, “Pachem.”  
  
The smiles returned, but Jack noticed as he got to his feet, the men held their staffs ready.  
  
The little old man, Jack decided he must be male, motioned for him to follow. They were inside a large wooden building. It appeared to be round. The construction was simple. It had a floor of black stone strewn with straw. There were high walls without ornamentation of any kind. There were windows, just narrow slits without glass or other coverings. The size and elongated cross-shape of the windows, and the cleric’s proficiency with a staff, warned Jack that these people were far more than peaceful clerics. These men were warriors.  
  
He followed his keeper through a thick wooden door and out into the sun. It was snowing lightly, but the sun shone cheerily between the clouds. Jack pulled his cloak tightly closed and blinked up at the sun. It felt like ages since he’d seen real sunshine.  
  
The voyage had not gone as planned, of course. Rather than finding Norway, somehow he’d been pulled far south. The first night, he could tell by the stars that the ship was off-course, but he couldn’t correct the set of the sail or row hard enough to make any difference. Then fog closed in and, without a compass, Jack had no way of knowing where the ship was drifting.  
  
Jack had counted the days carefully and rationed his stores, eking them out as long as possible. After almost two months, he’d run out of water, and three days later he ran out of food. Still the fog persisted and Jack leaned against the tiller and wondered where the currents would take him. Two days later, determined to land, Jack reset in the sail, bound the spare sail into a sea anchor and heaved it over the starboard side. Immediately, the drag slowed the ship and Jack felt her start to turn. He tightened the sheets and leaned hard on the tiller. Slowly, slowly the ship came about.  
  
The voyage ended that night. Still lost in heavy fog, Jack must have dozed at the tiller. Crashing waves and the sharp snap of timbers woke him. He’d run her onto rocks.  
  
“Aw crap!” he cursed. A split second later, the ship lurched and bucked again.  
  
Jack had scrambled forward. Despite the natural sense of alarm, his spirits had soared. ‘Maybe,’ he’d thought, ‘I can finally get off this tub.’ He’d peered at the hull and confirmed that the ship bottom had, indeed, ruptured. When he saw rock through her buckled planks and, where there was no rock, frothing seawater, he realized, ‘I could still be miles from shore. She’ll lift at the next tide and then sink like a stone. Unless I want to go to the bottom too, I’ve gotta be ready.’  
  
He’d gathered all the empty provision casks and lashed them to four oars with rope and sailcloth improvising a crude raft. Unfortunately, the ship’s oars were too long and heavy to propel the rickety raft. He had to be in the water to move it.  
  
‘Still, it’s my best chance,’ he figured as he tipped the contraption over the side. ‘Better than drowning.’ He jumped in after it, grabbed hold of a rope and started kicking, pushing the kegs ahead and praying he was holding a straight course toward shore. There was no way to tell.  
  
As Jack crossed the open courtyard, following the ancient monk, he recalled scraps of the difficult trip into shore. His view had been limited to the sea’s surface at eye-level. Dense fog hid the stars. He remembered thinking, ‘If I’m still too far out to sea, the raft will keep drifting South. Eventually, my remains might reach Spain, maybe even the coast of Africa. I always wanted to visit Africa. Sweet.’  
  
He remembered kicking hard in the cold water, clinging to the raft, and telling himself that he was very close to land, very close, and the tide would carry him in to shore. As time passed, he reminded himself that he was overdue for some luck. Eventually, as time and space lost all meaning, he just clung to the raft. By then he didn’t really give a damn which shore he reached, as long as it was dry and warm.  
  
He didn’t remember the rest. He must have reached land. He must have walked up onto the shore, or crawled. He had a dim memory of meeting the locals; men who looked like they’d caught something dangerous.  
  
Then, he awoke in the monastery of Llancarfan.  
  
The men of Llancarfan were tough. Jack quickly learned where the saying, ‘Spare the Rod’ originated. It had to have been invented at Llancarfan. The monks did not tolerate ignorance. Each infraction required a stiff beating.  
  
Jack didn’t fight back. Instead, he kept his eyes lowered, kept his mouth shut and snapped to it when one of the senior monks ordered him to do anything. He needed the Brothers to accept him. They were his best chance to find the Yult.  
  
Unfortunately, his Latin was limited to Christmas carols, military jargon and a couple of useless phrases from high school. Fortunately, the orders almost always involved waking up, going to bed, going to prayers or scrubbing or cleaning something.  
  
Jack learned the words for floor, table, barn and latrine. He learned the schedule for prayer, seven times a day, day and night, day-in day-out, and he learned his prayers. He’d known many of them as a child when the Mass was still recited in Latin. By the end of a month, he was able to recite them. He was black and blue from his lessons, but he was also well on his way to becoming a Brother of Llancarfan.  
  
Jack was not alone in his tribulations. There were a handful of other novitiates. They didn’t seem to know much Latin either. They spoke tongues that Jack couldn’t understand. Mostly they sounded like the speaker had a mouthful of marbles. Jack guessed it was Celtic, maybe a form of Welsh. The other novitiates looked like locals: short, dark-haired, pale-skinned and broadly muscled.  
  
Jack stood head and shoulders above the other men. That was his bad luck. It made him the first man a senior monk saw whenever there was a problem or a dirty job to do. He was saddled with more of the heavy work, all of the stable duty and far more than his share of plowing, grubbing, chopping, sewing, lifting, lugging, dragging and stacking the grain grown in the fields surrounding the cluster of holy buildings.  
  
At first, he accepted it stoically. He reminded himself that he needed the Brothers’ help. He likened it to boot camp. There too he’d been singled out for special treatment. ‘Shut up and do it,’ had gotten him through Hell Camp, the worst that the diabolical Special Forces trainers could throw at a man. He figured the same strategy should work for this bunch of Holy Joes.  
  
As the weeks passed, though, he came to enjoy his life at Llancarfan. It had been years since he’d been so totally free of responsibility. He had hard physical work, plenty to eat, a well-ordered lifestyle that was eerily like the modern military and, for once, absolute peace and quiet. Nobody spoke, unless it was to issue an order or explain the reason for impending punishment.  
  
It was a good, simple life. Without realizing it, Jack O’Neill thrived. He gained back forty pounds of lean, hard muscle. He worked hard, slept hard and, for a while, stopped worrying about the past or the future.  
  
Spring came and went. The Brothers taught Jack to plow and sew the fields. He lived by a simple, rigid set of rules. His arms and face grew as dark as his nut-brown robes from long days in the fields.  
  
Summer flowered and passed. Jack made cheese and hunted honeycombs in the surrounding woods. He tended livestock and weeded the kitchen garden. The monastery’s aged Apothecary needed a strong back to help and, when Jack showed an interest, the old man schooled him in the cultivation and preparation of plants useful for healing, dyes, spices and making poisons and potions. The Apothecary was pleased to have an apt pupil for a change, one that he didn’t need to flog.  
  
Autumn came. Jack barely slept. He spent long, hot, golden days harvesting, threshing, milling and brewing grain. Only daily prayers interrupted the fieldwork.  
  
Winter finally closed in around Llancarfan. Fieldwork dwindled. There was time, at last, for the monks to teach the novitiates proper Latin. Jack and the rest had memorized their prayers by rote under the stiff discipline of the rod. As snow piled on the window ledges, however, the monks instructed them in their deeper meanings and mysteries.  
  
There was still plenty to do besides study. Early mornings, Jack baked bread. Later in the afternoons, after studies, and on into the evening novitiates spun wool, wove and dyed cloth, sewed and mended.  
  
The world had turned full circle since O’Neill had arrived at the Monastery and the Llancarfan monks had turned him toward a new life. O’Neill had come to them an outcast and possible enemy – starved, lost and utterly alone. Yet they took him in.  
  
That charity saved Jack’s life and he was grateful. Through the months that followed, in their tough, rigid way, the Brothers had pulled him into their fold. Jack sensed the transformation. He tried to remain apart, aloof, but the infinitely patient monks quietly wore away his resolve.  
  
From the moment he’d opened his eyes and looked up at little old Brother Callowyn, Jack had sidestepped inquiries into his former life. The language barrier helped at first. In time, however, Brother Callowyn, the monk in charge of novitiates, expected him to speak more and more fluently.  
  
By mid-winter of the first year, Callowyn was pressing Jack, daily, asking details of his past, probing for the motives that drove an Irish heathen to a Christian life, a life apart from the world.  
  
Jack kept silent. That silence only piqued Callowyn’s interest and heightened his sense of duty. As Brother in Charge of Novitiates, it was Callowyn’s duty to dig out the demons of each novitiate.  
  
Callowyn’s instincts told him the tall Irishman was a lost and deeply troubled soul. So, each day, the old monk sought O’Neill, and probed his most enigmatic charge for details of his life before Llancarfan.  
  
It was his duty. He knew that a monk must face his demons, if he was ever to truly put aside worldly desires. Otherwise, the Monastery would become a place to hide or, worse, a prison, rather than a place for spiritual study and holy reflection. Callowyn dedicated his waking hours to helping Jack face and dispel his earlier passions and human failings.  
  
O’Neill used all his black-ops skills to evade Callowyn’s well-intended advances. Even so the old monk managed, one way or another, to corner him every day. If he missed Jack in the kitchen before breakfast, he’d find him after his daily lessons. If he missed him after lessons, he’d approach him later in the sewing room.  
  
It was a sticky situation for Jack. He knew he could not tell Callowyn the truth. Sam had drilled that idea into his head back in 1969.  
  
‘Or would that be forward?’ he wondered. Either way, he knew Sam was always, always right about anything involving Physics. He couldn’t let anything slip that might change the future, his future and hers, together. He couldn’t explain.  
  
Still, Brother Callowyn was a clever old rascal. After a lifetime of dealing with silent males seeking refuge from the world, Callowyn was wise and inconveniently insightful.  
  
Jack stood in the pale early morning light dusting fifty small brown blobs of yeasty dough with flour, in preparation for the pleasant process of kneading them into a series of perfectly formed loaves. He glanced up at the soft sound of sandal-clad footsteps. Callowyn was coming his way.  
  
O’Neill lowered his head and hunched his shoulders to appear shorter. He pretended to concentrate on the routine task, hoping Callowyn would pass by. Sometimes it worked, usually if another novitiate were in his sights. Not this morning. Jack was alone in the kitchen. There was no one to distract the little old man.  
  
Callowyn tottered up, stopped and watched Jack work in silence for a full fifteen minutes before he spoke.  
  
“Good morn, Brother,” Callowyn said mildly. “How does the bread dough feel this fine day?”  
  
Jack looked up and said courteously, “Fine, Brother.” Then he dropped his eyes and continued kneading.  
  
Callowyn watched him for another fifteen minutes. The old man had nowhere else to be this morning, that was very clear, and he had something to say. Jack knew he’d never come out straight with it. It wasn’t Callowyn’s modus operandi.  
  
“Smooth, warm, and alive under your hands,” Callowyn stated.  
  
Jack glanced up and felt a hot blush creeping up his neck. Callowyn had chosen his words perfectly for that effect. Despite Jack’s determination, he missed Sam. The living dough did remind him of her. Why? He had no idea, but Callowyn’s words brought sharp desire to the surface, desire Jack wanted to hide.  
  
Jack kept folding and pressing the warm dough. He felt Callowyn looking into his soul.  
  
“Does it remind you of …” Callowyn paused, drawing out the double entendre of the coming question. “Home?”  
  
Jack heard an unspoken allegation. ‘Does it remind you of her?’  
  
“Yes, Brother,” he replied evenly, but Callowyn watched his hands on the dough. Jack felt them giving his secret away.  
  
“Did you make bread often,” Callowyn probed, “at home?”  
  
“Twice, Brother,” Jack said, then realized he’d answered a question Callowyn hadn’t asked, at least not directly. Effortlessly, the crafty old monk had evoked memories of Sam, memories and feelings, and information Jack did not want to share.  
  
Jack avoided looking at Callowyn, but he felt the old monk peering at him keenly. Somehow, Callowyn had him pegged as a casualty of love. Jack figured that subject would come up in a moment. Callowyn had returned again and again to lecturing on the ‘ways of the flesh’ and the advantages of giving oneself, body as well as soul, to God. He continued to work the loaves.  
  
“Yet you seem to have the touch of an … experienced man,” Callowyn stated. He smiled amiably as Jack’s blush deepened.  
  
‘Of course I’m experienced,” Jack thought fiercely as he felt his face growing redder.  
  
“Brother O’Neill,” Callowyn continued gently, “some believe the joy of a baker is in tasting the bread. What say you?” He watched Jack form another loaf.  
  
Jack’s voice was husky as he answered honestly. “No, Brother. Not just ‘tasting.’ It’s more than that, a lot more.”  
  
“That’s right,” Callowyn smiled kindheartedly. “Perhaps, Brother, there is enough to satisfy a man, even without tasting. Perhaps, through prayer and courage, by the grace of our Lord.”  
  
Jack kept his head lowered and didn’t answer. So, Callowyn strolled away through the empty kitchen leaving Jack alone with the possibility that it might have to be enough. The bread felt warm and alive as he formed the last loaves.  
  
Late that night, he lay awake in a dormitory filled with other lonely men. He thought about Sam. He wondered how he could ever find a way back home. Callowyn’s compassionate words had been offered as brotherly comfort. They filled Jack with dread, however, and a heartache that wouldn’t let him sleep.  
  
Jack hunched under his blanket and considered his options. There was just one.  
  
‘Be ready,’ he told himself, ‘Watch for any hint of Yult. The Brothers might know them or be involved without knowing what they are. If I can just find them, the Yult might get me home… somehow.’  
  
The next day, it wasn’t the Yult that ended Jack’s peaceful life at Llancarfan Monastery. It was war.  
  
ΩΩΩ  
  
Word came in the morning. Novitiates whispered as they scrubbed the hallway floors after breakfast. Jack knelt, wincing from his bad knees, and scrubbed the immaculate black slate floor, listening to tales of King Gwynllyw and his ruthless sons.  
  
Gwynllyw, Jack learned, ruled Gwynllwg a kingdom to the east. War had been narrowly averted just before Jack’s arrival at Llancarfan. King Gwynllyw, it seemed, had kidnapped a princess of the royal family of Brycheiniog. The region had been on the brink of war. But, a week before Jack arrived, a local warrior, named Arthur, had intervened. Arthur had brought a tenuous peace by negotiating a marriage of Princess Gwladys ap Brycheiniog to King Gwynllyw ab Gwynllwg.  
  
Now, the rumors ran, Gwladys had fled from her violent husband. She’d found refuge at nearby Neath Abbey. King Gwynllyw, in a bloody rage, had attacked the peaceful sisterhood.  
  
Like Lucifer incarnate, Gwynllyw had fired the outbuildings and killed livestock in the fields. The Holy women had taken refuge in their tiny stone church at Neath’s center. It was the only building on the Abbey grounds that Gwynllyw couldn’t burn. They had blockaded the heavy door and narrow windows. Gwynllyw now had the church under siege.  
  
The young Welshman scrubbing the floor beside Jack told him that Gwynllyw’s tribesmen were great warriors. They were, by all accounts, uncommonly tall, dark-eyed and fierce. The novitiate glanced at Jack warily. The look told all, but the honest novitiate continued in a whisper. “Brother O’Neill, they must look like you. You could be one of them.”  
  
“I’m Irish,” Jack lied, but he realized that the locals who’d found him had almost certainly noticed the resemblance, too. It was a miracle that they hadn’t killed him on sight. Fortunately, they’d delivered him to Llancarfan, instead, maybe because he’d been too weak to stand. Somehow, possibly while he was sick and rambling, the monks learned his name. O’Neill. On the basis of an Irish name, they’d concluded he was an Irish heathen who’d come to Llancarfan convert to Christianity. That suited Jack just fine. As the novitiate stared at him, he repeated the lie, “Irish.”  
  
He lowered his eyes and kept scrubbing the expanse of black slate floor, trying not to show his eagerness. Inside, his heart was light. He was ready to rush to the Sisters’ rescue now. Neath Abbey, he figured, could be a Yult enclave. If it was, he’d find a way to speak to the Sisters there. He’d get them to help. Somehow, he’d find a way home.  
  
Jack didn’t worry about the conflict itself. He ignored the novices’ theorizing. War was coming – very soon. The monks would mobilize within hours. Jack knew it. As he dutifully scrubbed the spotless floor, his only worry was how he’d convince the Yult to help him.  
  
The order to arms came at midnight mass. Abbot Cadoc stood at the Alter and in his homily asked for protection for the Sisters of Neath. Then he declared to the assembled Brotherhood that a mortal crime was being committed against the Order. He informed them that action was necessary and he ordered all men of Llancarfan -- cleric, novitiate and laymen -- to march within the hour to save the Holy Sisters of Neath. He ordered the Brothers and Novices to submit to the rituals of purification.  
  
Jack understood the words, but not the implications. He followed others as they ‘submitted.’ To his dismay, he saw that they were all getting fresh haircuts. Jack had worn his hair in a long plait for well over a year, ever since it had grown long enough when he was a-Viking.  
  
Now, he saw young men ahead of him undergoing purification. Each novitiate was stripped, doused with a bucket of cold water and ordered to scrub himself raw with lye soap and what looked like a currycomb from the stables. The shivering novitiate then received clean robes and lined up for the barber.  
  
The barber, a red-faced, robust monk, named Brother Evan, cropped their shaggy brown hair into short, smooth bowl cuts. The style alone was ridiculous, but that didn’t bother Jack nearly as much as the glowing smooth white bald patch that Brother Evan shaved on the pate of each victim.  
  
Jack submitted to the icy bath, pulled on fresh woolen robes and considered turning tail and running. He hadn’t had his head shaved since basic training more than thirty years ago. He did not want it shaved now, especially a bald spot, something he abhorred.  
  
‘I can reach the wall before anyone notices,’ he thought. In the dark, windy night he might get clean away. As the line got shorter, he toyed with the possibilities. In the end, however, a year of strict monastic discipline won out over 21st Century male vanity.  
  
Jack stepped up to the basin and knelt. He heard the sheers slice through his manly braid. He saw the long braid of silver hair join the mounds of brownish red around Brother Evan’s ankles. Next, the barber plunked a head-sized bowl on Jack’s head and cropped an even circle around the edge.  
  
Then came the coup de gras. The barber vigorously soaped the back of Jack’s head. With three quick strokes, he shaved it clean and then plunked a skullcap over the atrocity.  
  
Jack stood, holding the skullcap in place. Brother Evan beamed at him and said, “The Abbot wants a word with you, Brother O’Neill. He’s waiting in the Chapel.”  
  
Jack crossed the dark, windswept courtyard between the monks’ living quarters and the Chapel. He held his skullcap down on his newly shorn head, until he entered the dark Chapel, genuflected at the Alter and crossed the little stone building.  
  
Light shown from the vestry. Jack entered wordlessly and knelt before Cadoc. The Abbot blessed him, anointed his forehead with holy oil and stated in somber tones, “Brother O’Neill, henceforth, you are a full-fledged Brother of Llancarfan, entitled to all the rights and responsibilities of the order, including the right to die in holy battle.”  
  
Jack raised his eyes to the Abbot and said solemnly, “Vini, vidi, vici.”  
  
Cadoc’s mouth quirked slightly and he replied, “Semper Fi, Brother.”  
  
Bellum  
  
The tunnel trembled violently. Sam barely noticed. The battering had lasted so many days that she was used to the rumbling, rattling, and trembling.  
  
Sam glanced at Daniel. He was white as a sheet. He had not acclimated to the constant pounding. Daniel was scared stiff, Sam knew. Not for himself, but for his friends.  
  
In this instance, Daniel was too smart for his own good. He was fully, desperately aware of their situation. They were probably going to die in a few hours, or days. Sam was trained for war. Daniel wasn’t. She’d been through massive barrages like this, in the Gulf War, before she joined SGC. Daniel hadn’t.  
  
Sam slid across the low-ceilinged cavern and settled beside him. She gave his tightly clenched fist a quick squeeze.  
  
“How you holding up, Daniel?” she asked softly.  
  
Daniel’s eyeballs turned, but his head never moved. He gave her a tense grin. The rest of his face stayed frozen with dread.  
  
“Fine,” he lied.  
  
Teal’c observed in stony silence. He’d been quieter than usual. It worried Sam.  
  
From the first, she’d sensed that Teal’c detested the Yult. He probably held them responsible for their near-death in the Bermuda Triangle, maybe for Colonel O’Neill’s disgrace, as well. Sam credited them with helping her to save Earth, but Teal’c didn’t seem to see it that way. Friction had sparked between him and Jack when they first arrived on P3X-667. Days in cramped quarters had done nothing to ease the tension between the former friends.  
  
Sam knew she hadn’t helped. A few hours ago, she’d announced that, if they survived, she wasn’t going back to the SGC. Daniel had been silent. Teal’c had objected.  
  
“O’Neill,” he’d argued, “will not be able to find you when he returns, Major Carter.”  
  
Sam had parried that Jack was back. As she saw it, Jack was changed, but he was still Jack O’Neill. Sam had reasoned with Teal’c, but the Jaffa had not been swayed. He countered that O’Neill would never become one with the Goa’uld. He continued to refer to Jack as ‘the General,’ never as ‘O’Neill.’ That moniker, he stubbornly reserved for the other Jack, his friend, the man she’d exiled to the distant past.  
  
Sam felt sorry for Teal’c and she felt sorry for Jack. He hadn’t said anything, of course, but Sam knew Jack O’Neill well enough to know that it hurt. Sam decided to try to pull Teal’c into their conversation.  
  
“How much longer can this go on, Teal’c?” she asked.  
  
The Jaffa gazed at her, considering the question. Another crescendo of explosions rattled the rock around them. The air filled with fine particles of rock dust. When the explosions finally died away, he answered.  
  
“I do not know, Major Carter,” he said. “If the General is correct, there is a vast force of Goa’uld over the planet. They are battling another massive force comprised of Yult. He estimates at least thirty thousand warriors battle for the Yult. We cannot estimate the numbers of Goa’uld. Combat will likely last until one side or the other prevails. If estimates are accurate, this could continue for a very long time.”  
  
“Right,” Sam nodded, brushing rock dust off her face and shaking it out of her hair. ‘Leave it to Teal’c,’ she thought, ‘to state the obvious.’  
  
They’d already endured weeks of pounding. The small force of Yult who’d followed Gorlagon had managed to hold out until ‘the Family’ arrived. Since then, scores of Yult ships had raced to their aid.  
  
Unfortunately, the Goa’uld invasion fleet had also been massive. According to rumors, it was gaining strength by the hour. Somehow, Shu and Tefnut had forged a Goa’uld coalition of unprecedented reach. If true, this was the Tok’Ra’s worst nightmare.  
  
Jacob and Selmak had repeatedly warned General Hammond, and Jack, of the danger of uniting the Goa’uld against a common enemy. Jack had scorned the danger and the Tok’Ra, accusing them of playing politics and of using half-measures.  
  
The Tok’Ra, in turn, disparaged the SGC for its lack of strategy and sophistication. They pointed out the value of continuing to undermine the Goa’uld by playing stronger Goa’uld off against the other, weaker System Lords.  
  
General Hammond had always been polite, but in the end, he trusted O’Neill. He agreed with his 2IC that the Tok’Ra had missed the point. In his heart, Hammond was a Texan and a balls-to-the-wall warrior. He credited the Tok’Ra for keeping the System Lords at each other’s throats for millennia. He didn’t want to continue the stalemate for another thousand years. Since Tok’Ra strategies hadn’t won the war, a more aggressive approach was necessary as he saw it.  
  
The issue led to endless debates, internally and with Earth’s allies. In the end, however, Hammond and the SGC stuck to a straightforward policy.  
  
When faced with evil, the SGC helped. When opportunity appeared to free some people, liberate any planet or battle whatever Goa’uld was at his Gate, Hammond authorized his people to take action. He’d fought in Korea and in Vietnam and he knew a warrior worked with the hand dealt him. So, General Hammond chose to act and he let the Tok’Ra fume.  
  
Now, as she shook bits of rock out of her hair, Sam admitted that maybe the Tok’Ra had been right. It looked like the Goa’uld had put aside internal squabbles for the moment. They’d joined forces against a single, powerful foe – The Yult.  
  
The Family had responded admirably to the challenge to ‘clean up their own mess.’ Scores of their ships had massed over the planet. More arrived daily from far distant planets. The Yult threw their ships and fighters against the Goa’uld battle cruisers. They fought and died fearlessly, but courage, speed and firepower were a poor match for the superior shield technology of the Goa’uld.  
  
From all reports, the Yult were being slaughtered. Everyone in the tunnels knew. When the Yult ships were destroyed, the tunnels and the troops they protected would be next. And what then?  
  
Sam wondered if, after victory on P3X-667, Shu would turn his fleet against Earth. If he did, could Triangle save the planet again? Not if the Goa’uld hung back. Not if Shu targeted the BQs in their hardened sites.  
  
Sam shook her head and reminded herself not to think too much. At the moment, the Goa’uld fleet overhead was the primary problem. Shu was using the Yult forces as bait, keeping them pinned down in the tunnels, and drawing out the rest of the Yult. It was working. The Family kept fighting and dying, renewing their front-line forces as more ships arrived or drawing reinforcements from the tunnels to rejoin the surface battles. The Goa’uld knew they were superior. Shu wanted an all-out, winner-take-all battle and the Family was giving it to him.  
  
'How long,' Sam wondered, 'before the Family runs out of warriors and ships?'  
  
'Not long,' her fears whispered.  
  
As bad as it was inside the tunnels, it was the safest place on the planet. The new crystal structures had held up better than Sam could have hoped against the bombardment. Sam credited Jack. It was his idea to reformulate the crystals and create a blended crystal structure. That simple, ingenious change had thwarted the Goa’uld search for a resonance frequency that would bring the tunnels crashing down on top of them.  
  
Sam had helped, of course. She’d found a way to build the tunnels from a constantly varying mixture of native materials, to continually shift the crystalline form and make tunnels that would not vibrate at a single frequency. For good measure, she’d also constricted the tunnel diameter and increased their strength.  
  
The smaller tunnels had everyone hunched over like ancient miners, but the smaller tunnel size more than doubled their chances of surviving. Between them, these improvements had neutralized the Goa’ulds’ plan to bury the Yult under their own defenses. Sam figured a little discomfort was worth it.  
  
Teal’c rose suddenly and announced, “I am going to learn of our current situation.” Then he scrambled away down the narrow tunnel. The big man never complained, but Sam knew that the tiny tunnels had to be difficult for him. He was, after all, a very big guy living in a very small space.  
  
‘Maybe that’s why Teal’c’s been so glum,’ she thought as she watched Teal’c crab-walk away.  
  
Her thought drifted back to Jack. He’d been nothing short of astounding. She’d never expected Jack O’Neill to take part in solving a technical or scientific problem. He’d always delegated it and trusted her to find a solution. As she thought about it, Sam had to admit that Teal’c had a point.  
  
The man who’d returned to them, as Gorlagon, was very different from the Colonel Jack O’Neill they’d known. Gorlagon wasn’t the freewheeling warrior that Teal’c remembered. Gorlagon took part in even the most esoteric scientific debates. Physics no longer baffled him or triggered an impatient order to ‘keep it simple, Major.’  
  
Sam smiled wistfully, remembering Jack’s confession of the real reasons he didn’t want to hear about the Physics behind her scientific wizardry. Sam suddenly missed that simple, passionate man. She missed him very much.  
  
Ever since their brief, electric embrace at the Gate of P3X-667, Sam wondered what it would be like to make love with this Jack O’Neill. There’d been no time and no privacy in the cramped tunnels. She hadn’t even been alone with him since their conversation in the tower that moon-drenched night when this all began.  
  
As she remembered the feel of him holding her, Sam forgave Teal’c for not admitting that the two men were, in fact, the same man. She felt tears welling up in her grit-filled eyes and knew that the barrage and the cramped space had nothing to do with Teal’c’s somber mood.  
  
  
ΩΩΩ  
  
Far above Tefnut growled and the huge, tawny lioness paced back and forth, rumbling menacingly. The battle was not proceeding as expected.  
  
A fleet of Yult ships still defended the planet below. Tefnut had no doubt that her brother, Shu, would defeat the Yult. In the next few hours, the barrage below should end. Assault troops would then transport to the surface and eradicate the scattered pockets of defense on the planet’s surface.  
  
Then her Jaffa would penetrate the matrix of tunnels in the planet’s depths. The resonance frequency strategy had failed, but her fleet carried enough naquida-enhanced explosives to collapse the tunnels and bury the remaining Yult alive.  
  
It was all taking time, however, more time than expected. The Yult were continuing to fight when they should have surrendered. They were managing to survive when they should already have died.  
  
The great cat was losing patience. Her tail flicked as she gazed at the screen.  
  
‘The Yult will lose, in time,’ Tefnut decided. ‘Their pitiful ships are no match for our vessels.’  
  
Tefnut was correct. Yult technology was crystal-based, like the Goa’uld. Unlike Goa’uld technology, however, Yult weapons had not adapted technology from hundreds of conquered worlds. As a result, the Yult had no rings to transport to the planet or even between vessels. They relied on transport ships. Nor did they possess advanced defensive technology, such as shields.  
  
The Yult ships emphasized offensive systems. Their ships, though very fast, were less maneuverable than Goa’uld fighters. Since the Goa’uld possessed shields, the Yults’ greater speed was only a slight advantage.  
  
The Yult had only one clear advantage. There were more of them. At the moment, they had at least twice as many vessels and probably three times as many warriors. They were willing to commit them all to the war.  
  
Tefnut crouched before the screen, with her chin on her paws. A dozen fighters screamed and arched across the screen. The ships swooped and parried. Flashes of weapons fire streaked. Explosions punctuated the star field. Shields glimmered and sparked as Yult pilots swept down, guns firing, as they tried in vain to damage the Goa’uld Ha’tak vessels.  
  
Damage to her fleet was minimal. The Yult fighters exploded or crashed harmlessly into Goa’uld force fields long before they came close to the vessels themselves. Three more Yult fighters emerged from behind the planet, but in an instant, they were targeted and blasted out of the sky. One exploded immediately. The other two snaked away to the planet below, trailing flame like twin meteors. Only one reached the planet’s surface. A fragile white blossom formed where it crashed.  
  
Tefnut purred as more Yult joined the fight and one after another died in flames. Clearly, it was futile. They should surrender, but they didn’t. They just kept coming.  
  
After a while, Tefnut grew bored with the slaughter. The outcome was too obvious to hold her interest. It was just a matter of time and dwindling Yult resources. When their battle cruisers finally swatted the last of the Yult, Tefnut’s Death Gliders would move against the remnants on the surface, wipe them out and then, finally, her brother would order the fleet to turn towards Earth.  
  
Tefnut, stood, stretched and ambled to her brother’s side. She bumped his leg with her head and growled to remind him that she was hungry.  
  
Shu turned away from his consol, leaned down and stroked the silky tan hair between his sister’s large black-tipped ears. “Patience, my lovely,” he murmured.  
  
Tefnut purred loudly and flopped on the floor at his feet, offering her pale white belly. Shu rubbed and scratched as the massive lioness stretched and closed her brilliant green eyes and flexed her great claws with pleasure. Still her tail flicked. She was very hungry. She continued to purr, but growled softly.  
  
“I know,” Shu murmured soothingly. He’d delayed her descent to the surface until after the barrage. Tefnut was fearless and, when hungry, impetuous. Her brother and husband would not risk one hair on her very hairy head.  
  
Shu straightened and considered the predicament. The barrage was continuing for at least another hour. It would take that long to wipe out the forces in orbit. Still, Shu considered, with a ship full of Jaffa, was there really any reason for his beloved to go hungry?  
  
The Jaffa on the bridge shifted nervously at their posts. They’d seen this situation before and all of them knew that whoever called attention to himself could be Tefnut’s next meal. The cat watched them hungrily. She knew it, too.  
  
Her brother stroked her huge head and murmured, “Patience, beloved. It will not be long.” The lioness rumbled deep inside and licked her chops. “Not long at all.”  
  
ΩΩΩ  
  
Teal’c scrambled through the tunnels toward the Yult control center. In the constantly changing tunnel system it was easy to get lost, but Gorlagon’s voice echoed down the narrow crystal tunnels, guiding him through the last several turns. Teal’c scrambled the last fifteen yards, following the voice that sounded like O’Neill with laryngitis.  
  
Teal’c slipped silently into the command center. It was really just an expanded alcove in the tunnel. He settled against the wall and watched Gorlagon.  
  
The Yult was rasping into the radio crystal set. The old man didn’t require much sleep, Teal’c had noted long ago. The General had spent most of the past two weeks in almost constant radio contact with the battered surface forces above.  
  
“I’ve got your location. Repeat. I’ve got your location. Timing is vital. The tunnel cannot stay open for more than a few minutes. We’re breaking through to the surface in five minutes. Repeat. Coming through in five minutes.”  
  
There was a burst of static laced with intermittent words.  
  
Gorlagon depressed the crystal interface. “Say again?” he barked. There was only static in reply.  
  
If Teal’c didn’t know better, the husky voice could have been O’Neill’s, but Teal’c rejected that idea. If this was his friend, then Colonel Jack O’Neill was truly lost to them.  
  
Teal’c would not permit that prospect to enter his mind. No, Gorlagon might appear to be an aged version of O’Neill, but that was all. Appearances mean nothing, Teal’c knew.  
  
After all, the alternate Teal’c, the man he’d killed in cold blood, had appeared to be identical to himself. The Duplicates appeared to be real humans, identical in every external aspect to the other members of SG-1. None of that moved him.  
  
Teal’c cared nothing about alternate versions of reality. One reality mattered, only one. This reality. In this reality, Teal’c knew O’Neill was a warrior. He never gave up and never allowed himself to be subjugated by the Goa’uld. Never. O’Neill would have died first. He’d certainly never consider a Goa’uld his ‘Family.’  
  
Even so, Teal’c watched. Despite himself, he approved. Gorlagon had fretted for the safety of his surface deployed forces constantly, until his Family arrived. Now, with Goa’uld attention largely focused on battles in orbit, the old man worked furiously to gather fragments of squads and bring them into the relative safety of the tunnel system.  
  
Teal’c watched Gorlagon at the radio set and considered the situation. ‘It is a difficult objective,’ he decided. ‘Without working rings, Gorlagon must open small tunnels beneath the surface fighters, bring them into the system and then erase the rescue tunnels before the Goa’uld can overwhelm them.’  
  
With a ratio of more than one hundred Goa’uld on the surface to each Yult, it required great daring to literally snatch handfuls of Yult from under the Goa’ulds’ noses.  
  
Teal’c stood and approached the hunched-over old Yult. “Your strategy employs a high risk approach, General,” he stated.  
  
Gorlagon turned and squinted at Teal’c. “So, you’ve decided to speak to me,” he rasped sarcastically.  
  
Then he turned back to reply to a half-garbled radio transmission. Teal’c didn’t bat an eye. He knew that the strategy required Gorlagon’s constant supervision if it was to succeed.  
  
Static and rumbling prevented Gorlagon from catching the words of the surface commander. Teal’c knew from long experience that the surface fighters were probably scared, tired and perhaps near to breaking. He could hear it in their leader’s frazzled tone, even though only a few intelligible words broke through the static in the transmission.  
  
“Say again?” Gorlagon demanded, but this time there was no response.  
  
Gorlagon glanced down at his watch and grimaced. Teal’c could read his thoughts. He’d given his word. The surface troops would be congregating at the coordinates, counting on him to open an escape route. There was no going back now. He had to complete the mission, even though the last transmission might have been a warning not to come.  
  
After another moment the Yult turned back to face Teal’c. He raised an eyebrow expectantly. Teal’c’s brow lifted slightly, in response, and he answered, “I have.”  
  
“But you sure as hell aren’t ready to believe I am Jack O’Neill,” the Yult sneered.  
  
Teal’c said nothing, so Gorlagon turned to the Yult in charge of tunnel building. “What’s your name, Commander?” he asked.  
  
“Richelieu, General,” the Yult replied. “Tunnel Commander Richelieu.”  
  
Teal’c saw a shadow of indecision chase across the General’s face. Teal’c realized that he was appraising Richelieu, probably deciding that the young man was a solid leader. Teal’c could see Richelieu was levelheaded and self-assured enough to handle the insanity on the surface.  
  
‘Still,’ Teal’c could almost hear O’Neill’s voice warning, ‘this will get very messy.’  
  
Gorlagon ignored Teal’c and addressed the Yult. “Tunnel Commander, I’m coming along on this one. I need some fresh air and a grunt’s-eye view of the situation top-side.”  
  
Richelieu’s eyes narrowed. Clearly he wondered if this was a sign that the General didn’t trust his skills. Gorlagon smiled sheepishly and said. “I just want a chance to appraise the surface situation. You’ll handle the tunnel and the retreat. That’s entirely your baby. Okay?”  
  
Richelieu relaxed, nodded and said, “You betcha, General.”  
  
Teal’c flinched. It was irritating how O’Neill-isms had crept into the Yult manner of speech. It wasn’t at all unusual to hear a ‘you betcha’ or ‘for crying out loud!’ Even worse, Gorlagon did nothing to discourage it.  
  
For a moment, Teal’c was tempted to believe that it might have reminded Gorlagon of home and better times. Then the old Yult turned and growled, “You still here?”  
  
Teal’c glowered. He’d been about to offer to come along as backup. The snatches he’d been able to catch from the surface commander indicated a large surface force would come in immediately behind the barrage. Perhaps it was simple vengeful effort to wipe out the Yult force to the last man and woman. Perhaps it was a concentrated attack to penetrate the tunnel system. Either way, it wouldn’t hurt to have an experienced warrior guarding the tunnel entrance.  
  
Teal’c hesitated, something he never did. He didn’t trust the Yult. He did not like this rude old man, Gorlagon. It would be too terrible to face O’Neill on his return, however, if one of the team perished because his pride had interfered with his sworn duty to the SGC. Teal’c knew he must bear the obnoxious old man’s taunts in order to ensure the safety of Daniel Jackson and Major Carter.  
  
Teal’c stated firmly. “I am coming along.”  
  
Gorlagon squinted at him for a moment, then turned and scrambled into position behind a small machine he’d nicknamed ‘the mole.’ Teal’c wedged himself in behind him.  
  
The mole was a compact crystal-generator. It looked like a vacuum cleaner. Unlike the crystals the Tok’Ra had used to generate tunnels, the mole could also be reversed, Gorlagon had discovered, to erase a tunnel even quicker than it had been generated.  
  
The mole began to hum. Within three minutes it signaled surface contact. Gorlagon didn’t need the machine’s signal. Neither did Teal’c. The rising volume of explosions and screaming told the tale to anyone who’d been in a battle.  
  
Teal’c smelled a familiar pungent odor, a mixture of cordite, blood and that distinctive, but indefinable something produced by men in war. Jaffa, Yult, Tauri, it didn’t matter. Humans all smelled the same in battle.  
  
Teal’c followed Gorlagon through the tunnel entrance into a nighttime world in chaos. There was no moon, but it wasn’t dark. Everywhere the ground spewed up in hellfire plumes of red and orange that washed across the battlefield and colored the night sky.  
  
They were in the midst of a space-launched barrage. The blasts tore craters in the surface. Explosions marched in mathematical symmetry across the field of fire, tearing into the Yult. The ground forces hugged the ground and just took it. It reminded Teal’c of the images Daniel Jackson had shown him of trench warfare of World War I.  
  
He glanced at Gorlagon. The old Yult had been there, Teal’c knew, on the battlefields of Ypres and Verdun. Major Carter had recounted stories of Gorlagon’s experiences as a World War I Chaplin. They were not pleasant stories. They weren’t pleasant memories from the look on the old bastard’s face.  
  
Despite the mayhem, Teal’c was satisfied. There was a bizarre sort of safety as long as the barrage lasted. The Goa’uld would not send ground troops, until the bombardment stopped. Until then, they could move forces off the battlefield and into the tunnel system with little fear of surface forces following. They just had to complete the operation and seal the tunnel before the Goa’uld discovered they’d slipped away.  
  
Richelieu wasted no time. He mobilized the nearby knots of Yult huddled in blast craters. Yult scrambled for the tunnel mouth.  
  
Gorlagon keyed his radio. Static. He shouted into the mouthpiece, but there was no reply. He turned to Teal’c and stated the situation. “I don’t know if they can hear me. I can’t raise the commanders farther out. I’m sending runners to pull them in to this location.”  
  
Teal’c bowed his head slightly in reply, but said nothing. He watched the General closely as he motioned for several Yult. In the painted half-light, the old face looked uncannily like O’Neill.  
  
“You, you and you,” Gorlagon pointed. “Talk to the Tunnel Commander. He’s over there,” he rasped. “Get a read on the location of the rest of his men and go tell them to pull back to this location. You’ve got,” Gorlagon checked his watch, “fifteen minutes. After that the tunnel will be gone, erased, like it was never here. Got it?”  
  
“Yes, Sir,” they answered in unison. Even Teal’c’s heart sunk. The Yult looked so self-assured, so eager to fight the Goa’uld, the plague their Family had loosed on the Universe. He was certain some of them would die. Still, they wanted to go. It was almost enough to make him forgive the Yult. Almost.  
  
“Get out of here,” Gorlagon ordered. Then he knelt, wrapped his heavy cloak around himself and curled into a tight ball against the abutment. Teal’c hunkered down beside him and they waited as the bombardment swept back across, turning the night to hellfire.  
  
The Yult performed well. With seconds to spare, they all returned with scores of battered ground troopers. Teal’c watched their brethren jump into the tunnel. The men and women seemed frantic to escape. After less than fifteen minutes on the surface, bearing the full brunt the barrage, Teal’c understood that desire fully.  
  
Gorlagon turned to Tunnel Commander Richelieu, who brought up the rear. “All accounted for?” he demanded.  
  
“Yes, General,” Richelieu replied, then his eyes darted over Gorlagon’s shoulder and he cursed, “Aw, crap!”  
  
Teal’c froze against the abutment. He could not see the threat. That meant that the threat could not see him. Gorlagon didn’t give him away. He didn’t turn or look at him, but Teal’c could see from the grimace on the old Yult’s face that he realized that Jaffa, or perhaps a Goa’uld, had the drop on them.  
  
Suddenly, Gorlagon collapsed, grabbed Richelieu’s shirtfront and dragged him down, too. The man yelped and vanished into the tunnel. At almost the same instant, Gorlagon spun and fired. Teal’c stood and opened fire, too.  
  
Gorlagon sprawled in the dirt and rolled. A stream of staff weapon fire followed, singeing his whirling cloak. Teal’c leapt in the opposite direction as Gorlagon rolled toward the mouth of the tunnel. Teal’c didn’t bother to try. He could see it was too late. The tunnel entrance was being erased.  
  
Gorlagon was at the shrinking mouth. He would make it, but suddenly he turned and roared, “C’mon! Dammit, Teal’c! We don’t leave our people behind!”  
  
But before Teal’c could move, the hole was gone, erased, like it had never been there. They were cut off.  
  
“General,” Teal’c called out over the sound of the blasts. He pointed into the fire-bright night. A squad of Jaffa was closing on their position. They were surrounded.  
  
Gorlagon scrambled to a pile of debris and shrugged with a foolish grin. Then, to Teal’c’s shock, he snapped a regulation military salute, stood and emptied his P-90 into the closest targets.  
  
Jaffa fell. Several turned to run, but more charged forward. Gorlagon pulled his 9-millimeter and fired into them, picking his targets with care and calmly dropping them with one lethal shot after another. The trigger fell on an empty chamber. He reached for a grenade, but a weapon blast caught him.  
  
Gorlagon was flung back, onto the ground, in a cloud of smoke, dust and flying debris. Still, he tried to pull the pin, but Teal’c could see his arm wouldn’t work.  
  
Teal’c charged forward, dodging energy weapons fire.  
  
“O’Neill,” he bawled, throwing himself between his friend and the approaching waves of Jaffa  
  
ΩΩΩ  
  
The forces of Llancarfan marched out in darkness. Jack didn’t like the look of the force he’d joined, not one bit. The Brothers all toted stout wooden staffs, normally used for herding sheep, threshing grain or beating the crap out of ignorant or obstinate novitiates. Laymen carried an odd mixture of farm implements: mattocks, forks, machetes, axes and flails. Few had long bows.  
  
Jack hoped the other side was as poorly armed. Otherwise it would be a bloodbath and he was definitely on the wrong side. Still, he was going to aid an abbey and it might be a Yult stronghold. Besides, the Brothers of Llancarfan had befriended him. He owed them.  
  
The army jogged through the black forestlands at a quick pace. There was no moon to light the way, but the path was well worn and Jack just followed the men ahead of him.  
  
Everyone was in excellent shape. No one in this Age suffered from obesity. Everyone was in great cardiovascular condition. Probably, Jack figured, from endless work in the fields, scrubbing, shoveling and other heavy labor they all performed every day. The few elderly monks, who were too old to run, trotted along on bony donkeys or mean-spirited little Welsh ponies.  
  
Jack was content to run. He had developed a strong dislike for the half-pint horses as a result of mucking out the stable every day for the better part of a year. At first he admitted they were cute and clever, but he learned the hard way to never, ever turn his back on the wicked beasts. The ponies had a nasty habit of nipping passers-by if they weren’t looking. Then, when he turned on them, they looked innocent as lambs. Jack definitely preferred dogs any day.  
  
In three hours, the horizon ahead glowed through the dark branches. It was still far too early for sunrise.  
  
‘No,’ Jack decided as he jogged toward the glow. ‘That’s fire, a very big fire.’  
  
Someone began to sing in a high clear tenor. It was haunting, lovely and sad, until suddenly other men joined in the song. Soon, everyone was singing.  
  
It was like a bizarre musical production of Braveheart. And it wasn’t just any music. There were resounding basso profundo and soaring tenors. Every man knew his part. The entire assembly, from the Abbot astride his ill-tempered pony to the lowliest layman afoot, joined in. The mountains rang.  
  
Jack had heard of the famous Welsh men’s choirs. It never occurred to him, until now, that the tradition might have sprung from an ancient form of psychological warfare. Since ‘Row, Row, Row Your Boat’ overtaxed his singing skills, Jack concentrated on possible threats and let the army of Welshmen sing their silly heads off.  
  
Then, through the trees, he heard the scream of bagpipes. The forces of King Gwynllyw ab Gwynllwg cut loose with their own weird war music.  
  
“For cryin’ out loud,” Jack muttered, “I’m gonna die in a battle of the freakin’ bands.”  
  
Still the music made his heart pound faster. Icy fingers gripped his guts as bagpipes and human voices blended and clashed. The army sang like a host of lost souls as they ran headlong into the burning remains of Neath Abbey.  
  
Jack and the other monks picked up their pace as they descended on the enemy, slaughtering every man they met, whether he was sleeping or awake, fleeing or standing to fight. The monks around Jack roared as they closed on their victims. Jack roared, too, and swung his long wooden staff, mowing his better-armed enemies down like wheat, as the opposing forces crashed together. In an instant, the armies dissolved into a wild melee of hand-to-hand combatants.  
  
Jack fought his way through the tumult. He dispatched a dozen men, until he found himself facing a man who didn’t die so easily. The man sat astride a large brown warhorse. He was clad head-to-foot in chain mail and metal and carried a massive sword. Jack turned to slip back into the battling crowd, but the man had seen him.  
  
The horseman spurred the charger. It leapt after Jack and the rider slashed down with his heavy broadsword. Jack stepped aside. The wicked blade missed. The horse swept past, wheeled and came back at him. Jack ducked aside at the last moment. This time the blade passed much too close. Jack dodged. Then he moved in close. He slipped in tight against the horse’s sweating flank, where the rider couldn’t reach him. He hoped.  
  
The horseman sawed hard on the reins and rammed the horse’s rump into Jack’s shoulder. The animal’s haunch hit him hard and Jack slipped in the muddy field. He caught himself as oversized, steel-rimmed hooves waltzed all around him, sending muck flying. Somehow Jack recovered his footing and slithered aside, barely avoiding the bone-crushing hooves of the frenzied war-horse. As he clambered out of the way, he murmured his thanks to the wicked Welsh ponies that’d kept him on his toes for the past year.  
  
The huge horse whirled and the blade flashed around him. Jack ducked back against the animal’s rear, pulled a dagger and deftly slid its sharp, thin blade under the saddle girth. Leather parted and the saddle slipped. The rider tipped. He held his precarious balance for one long heartbeat, and then fell with a crash of metal on mud. His warhorse bucked and kicked herself free of the dangling saddle and lumbered off into the smoke.  
  
Jack let the unhorsed horseman rise to his knees. He waited while the man shook his head and pushed himself upright. Teal’c had schooled him carefully in staff weapon techniques. When the target began to struggle to stand, Jack swung. The tip of the thick wooden pole caught the left side of the helmet, tore it off and took part of occupant with it. The man collapsed in a limp heap.  
  
Gasping, Jack claimed the dead man’s short sword. He held it ready as he studied the situation and caught his breath. Clouds of smoke still boiled out of collapsed buildings. Dead men and animals were strewn across the field, a field that churned to a thick maroon muck of blood, soot and soil. As far as Jack could see the living dodged, charged, battled, or crouched bawling in terror or pain.  
  
Llancarfan monks thrust and flailed against an enemy that was taller, heavier and appeared far better armed. To Jack’s shock, the Brothers were winning. Their broken staffs were everywhere. Undaunted, however, the enraged monks grabbed up better weapons from the dead and continued to press their beleaguered enemies.  
  
Some sixth sense made Jack twist just as the long point of a lance whizzed past his shoulder. He crouched and lunged as the rider at the other end of the lance thundered down on him. Jack thrust his monk’s staff between the forelegs of the charging warhorse. Its churning hooves caught the thick wooden staff, snapping it. The galloping horse cart wheeled, flinging its rider down. The man didn’t move, as his mount scrambled up. It whinnied a heartfelt protest, shook its head and, stumbled into a knot of combatants. Then it was lost in the smoke.  
  
O’Neill had barely time to fling his bloody cloak back over his shoulder -- the lance hadn’t quite missed after all -- before another challenger charged out of the haze. He was screaming with rage and swinging a blood-smeared battle-ax.  
  
Jack turned to face him. The wild-eyed warrior paused, perhaps sensing something lethal about the old monk who stood before him. The Gwynllwg soldier stood panting a moment, swinging his ax, and gauging Jack through small piggish eyes. His lank brown hair hung in a sweaty tangle around his pale face.  
  
Still, Jack waited. So, the man wiped a filthy hand across his blackened face. It left a wide trail of red across his lips. Then he sneered, “Time to die, monk.”  
  
With a shout, the man charged and swung. The ax cut a high swath, whizzing over Jack’s head as he crouched and swung low. His sword caught the man, midsection, as he lumbered forward. The force of his charge carried the fool for several steps, but he was already dead. Disemboweled. The man lost his footing, became tangled in his own guts, fell and then looked up in simple-minded shock at the gray-haired monk who’d killed him.  
  
Jack swung again then. He removed the man’s head, before the shock turned to terror or pain.  
  
The first rosy hues of sunrise touched the sky when, inexplicably, a fierce bellow rolled over the field of battle. Jack straightened. He was covered in sweat, soot, gore and mud from the battle. His arm ached from wielding the heavy sword. His robes were saturated with blood, some of it his own. The Llancarfan men were cheering passionately, Jack realized, and waving their weapons overhead as they cried out.  
  
Then he saw the reason. A dazzling white horse pranced toward him through roiling smoke. The horse seemed to almost fly through the thick black clouds. His rider sat perfectly straight. He seemed unreal, larger-than-life. He was clad, head to foot, in shimmering silver armor. He was every inch a warrior, every inch a king. Jack knew it had to be Arthur, War-King of the Welsh.  
  
Arthur lifted his right arm, saluting the army of monks. Llancarfan men went wild with joy and wonder. Arthur drew a luminous sword, waved it overhead in a lazy circle. Excalibur glinted red and gold in the rising sun.  
  
The monks chanted, “Ar-thur! Ar-thur! Ar-thur! Ar-thur! Ar-thur!”  
  
Jack cheered, too, lifting his bloodstained sword in a warrior’s salute. He cheered with all his heart -- for Arthur, for the brave monks of Llancarfan, for the salvation of the Sisters of Neath, and he cheered long and hard for himself. He had found Arthur, that meant he’d found Kennedy, the Yult and a way home.  
  
The Gwynllwg resistance wilted at the sight of Arthur. They’d been losing, inch-by-miserable-inch. At the sight of Arthur, they quit. Jack didn’t blame them. The King was glorious.  
  
Jack shouted himself hoarse as Arthur rode past. He could have reached out and touched the War-King’s stirrup. Instead, his neck hairs bristled a warning. Jack turned, sensing a threat, too late.  
  
Not all the enemy had surrendered. One Gwynllwg man -- filthy, panting and bloodied – hefted a crossbow and trained it on the King. A short, metal-tipped arrow was nocked. It would pierce armor, Jack knew. The bow was cocked and, at a distance of less than five yards, the arrow wouldn’t miss.  
  
Jack didn’t hesitate. He spun and charged the bowman, bawling, “No!”  
  
The next instant, Jack felt something terribly wrong. His knees buckled and he went down like a sack of rocks. His face plowed into the blood-soaked dirt. The wind was knocked out of him. He gasped, but couldn’t draw breath. It hurt and then he was tumbling down and down into an icy, black wormhole.  
  
ΩΩΩ  
  
Thor watched as the subject was carried from the battlefield. The leader, a man encased in metal from head to foot, seemed to direct the others to help.  
  
Thor frowned. Considering what he’d just discovered about the subject, it would be a disaster if the human died. The Asguard turned back to his computer screens. The man’s device continued to show a heartbeat, irregular at the moment, but still beating. The other life signs were less encouraging, but Thor wasn’t inclined to simply transport the injured man away from the crowd.  
  
In the past that strategy, he was painfully aware, had led to fear, panic and, in a natural attempt to explain the inexplicable, cult movements on the planet involving worship of local con artists at worst, or belief in resurrection and other benighted ideas at best.  
  
No, Thor would not transport the subject unless it was clear he was going to die. His friends would have to help him. Instead, Thor shifted the screen and re-checked his research results, then shifted his communications crystals and contacted Freer. Her shiny black eyes blinked as she looked out from his wall screen.  
  
“Yes,” she said.  
  
“I need your assistance,” Thor explained. “It’s about the human, the missing link I am studying on Earth.”  
  
“Yes,” she repeated leaning forward slightly, showing her interest.  
  
“I am sending you data on his genetic make-up,” Thor stated. “I would appreciate your reviewing the data and telling me if you see anything … unusual.”  
  
“Unusual,” she repeated. “Can you be more specific?”  
  
“No,” Thor said. “I want your unbiased impressions. If I explain … just examine the data. Do it immediately, please. If I am correct, this could be vital to our Race.”  
  
  
 _ **Chapter 2. The Pit  
**_  
Arthur had turned and understood that he was about to die. The Gwynllwg archer had him dead in his sights. There was no way he could miss.  
  
Then, to both their shock, a tall monk had charged the archer. Robes flying, he swooped, like a great bird of prey. The archer, of course, lost his nerve and let the bolt fly. The metal-tipped shaft struck the monk square in his chest.  
  
Arthur had watched, transfixed. The monk lurched backwards, staggered and fell. With a roar, Arthur ordered the crowd to stand away from the men. A hush fell across the battlefield. Every eye followed him, as Arthur rode slowly past the Brother and on, to the man who’d killed him.  
  
Arthur had stopped before the trembling archer, raised his sword and spoke in a low, lethal voice. “You have murdered a better man than you, I think, Archer of Gwynllwg...”  
  
The Archer had looked up and nodded.  
  
Arthur continued, “a better man than me.”  
  
The Archer had closed his eyes and Arthur had beheaded him.  
  
Then he’d turned his warhorse and rode back to the monk, a crumpled heap of bloody robes. Arthur had dismounted, flung off his helmet and gloves and knelt beside the man. “Brother,” he said as he turned him over. “Brother, you saved my life.”  
  
The monk’s eyelids had fluttered open, “Geez!” he’d groaned. “It hurts, Sam.”  
  
Arthur understood the garbled reference to Christ, but not the rest. There might have been another name, he thought. ‘Sam.’  
  
“Be still monk,” Arthur ordered gently. “Save your strength. I will save your life. I swear it.”  
  
Obediently, the man had passed out.  
  
“A litter, immediately,” Arthur had called out as he stood and turned to address the crowd. “Bring him to the Sisters of Neath. Bring him to the Chapel.”  
  
Jack was loaded onto a field litter. Arthur strode before it, through the smoke and destruction, leading the way to Neath Chapel. The King banged his metal-gloved fist on the Church door.  
  
“Open the Church,” he called loudly. “Sisters, it’s Arthur. You are saved.”  
  
A cheer rose from the surrounding warriors at his words. Arthur stood impatiently as locks turned and the heavy bar lifted. The hinges creaked. The great wooden door swung open and a tall, stately woman stepped into the morning light. She wore a white wimple and long deep blue robes. Her eyes were dark brown. Her hair was hidden.  
  
“Merlyn,” Arthur greeted her, reaching his gloved hands out to her. The woman clasped the King’s gloved hands.  
  
“Bless you, Arthur,” Merlyn said. “Bless you all,” she called to the crowd, “for coming to our aid!”  
  
The warriors cheered back, as Arthur said fervently, “Sweet Abbess, I came as quickly as I could, but I was too late. The men of Llancarfan engaged Gwynllyw’s army well before dawn. These brave Brothers had already won their victory by the time I took the field.”  
  
Arthur turned and knelt beside the litter. He lifted the bloody brown cloth, revealing an ashen face, and gazed up at Merlyn. “Please, Mother,” he said, “this monk was among those that saved you. He also saved me, just now, at the price of his own life. Save him, if you can.”  
  
Merlyn stepped beside the litter, touched the thick butt of the arrow with her slender white finger and answered, “He will not live, Arthur. Saving him would require a miracle, no less. There is nothing to do for this man, but pray.”  
  
Arthur stepped closer and murmured, “Mother, please. You have …”  
  
She leaned close and interrupted with a low hiss, “Do not even think it, Asatur. It is impossible.”  
  
She raised her head and called to the crowd. “Thank you and bless you all!” Then, to the litter bearers, she ordered, “Bring this good monk inside. The Sisters of Neath will do all we can to comfort him.”  
  
As the litter bearers moved forward, nuns and young women spilled out of the church into the ruined village. Many screamed and cried at the devastation they saw, but many more wept tears of joy and gratitude and moved into the battlefield to help the wounded.  
  
Jack was carried into the dark church and deposited in a patch of sunlight illuminating the flagstone. Merlyn knelt beside him. She brushed mud and blood off his face with the corner of her robe. She was amazed to see his lips move.  
  
She leaned close and asked, “Are you still with us, Brother?”  
  
“Doc,” he muttered.  
  
“Doc?” Merlyn repeated the word. It was Latin. She recognized it’s meaning: ‘to teach’, or ‘to pass on.’  
  
Intrigued, she replied in Latin, “but what information, old Monk, do you have to pass on to me?”  
  
Jack grimaced and replied, this time in broken Latin. “Did the rest of my team get back through the Gate?”  
  
“Everyone else is fine,” Merlyn improvised. “What gate?” she asked gently.  
  
“Stargate,” he muttered.  
  
Merlyn’s heart froze. “Astraportal?” she replied. “What is that, Monk?”  
  
“A big metal ring,” Jack muttered, “very powerful …” The last few words were lost as he choked and passed out.  
  
Merlyn sat and gazed at the extraordinary monk. A thin trickle of blood colored the corner of his mouth. It was bright red. It meant the arrow had pierced a lung. His chest was filling with blood. He would soon die. She watched him gasping in shallow rapid breaths, struggling for oxygen. His heart would pump harder and harder, she knew, pushing more blood into his injured lung, until he drowned or had a heart attack, not an easy death.  
  
She contemplated this stranger, weighed his few words and other clues, and her excitement grew. Perhaps this was more than a simple holy man. Merlyn ran her fingers across his mud-stained jaw.  
  
‘A resolute chin,’ she thought. ‘Strong-willed for a monk.’ She traced her fingers up into his gray hair. It was thick and almost silver. He was far too old to be a warrior. Yet, his lean, well-muscled frame felt strong. He looked, in fact, far more like a soldier of Gwynllwg than a humble Llancarfan monk. He could live, if she helped.  
  
  
She’d heard his words distinctly, in clear, educated Latin. He’d spoken of an Astraportal. ‘Is it possible?’ she wondered, ‘A gateway to the stars?’  
  
Merlyn lifted his blood-soaked robes. Blood pulsed from around the shaft with each stroke of his heart. No man could survive an arrow through his chest. He’d be dead very soon, unless she took drastic steps. His mysteries would die with him.  
  
‘An Astraportal?’ Her heart hammered at the possibility of it and she knew she would work a miracle to learn more.  
  
Arthur clanked up the aisle, still in full battledress. He stood silently for a moment before asking, “Can’t you save him, Mother?” he implored. “Móðir, please. He’s the bravest man I’ve ever met. He threw himself in front of a crossbow to save me, a stranger.”  
  
Merlyn waved her hand, dismissing his plea. She’d already decided to save the monk, but it pleased her to hear a man beg.  
  
“Stranger? Hardly,” she snapped. “You are no stranger to this man. He knew you were the King. Anyone with eyes knows you, Arthur. Perhaps he loves you, the King, better than he loves his own miserable existence. Perhaps he is despondent and wants to die,” Merlyn suggested, carefully probing the wound. ‘The arrow missed his heart,’ she thought as she lowered the tunic. ‘The man is very pale,’ she noted. ‘He’s already lost too much blood to survive.’  
  
She turned to Arthur and asked, “Did he speak?”  
  
“Yes,” Arthur answered. “I couldn’t understand all he said. He said ‘Sam.’ I think it might be a name, perhaps a comrade.”  
  
“Yes,” Merlyn agreed, thinking, ‘A comrade. Sam must be one of the team that traveled through the Stargate. Where can he be? Where can the others be?’  
  
She glanced at Asatur, and smiled. “I will save him, Arthur. Then I think we shall go home. At last.”  
  
Arthur was puzzled and asked, “To Camelot?”  
  
Merlyn smiled and said softly, “No, my son. Much farther, I think.”  
  
ΩΩΩ  
  
Overhead Thor was fiddling anxiously with his ship’s sensor settings. The subject’s signal had been strong and clear, until it suddenly vanished. Even if the man had died -- and from the bloody battle below he might have -- his transmissions should have continued.  
  
‘No,” Thor realized, ‘Dead or alive, he’s being interfered with, It is something, or someone, from an advanced culture, far more advanced than Earth’s indigenous humans.’  
  
The Asguard shifted the stones, but to no avail. He shook his head and muttered, “perhaps Goa’uld.”  
  
ΩΩΩ  
  
Teal'c saw no escape. A volley of weapons fire from the far left caused Teal’c to turn. Suddenly, however, at least another fifty Jaffa appeared to his far right. Jaffa were everywhere. Their numbers grew as the circle closed. He knew the strategy well. He’d used it himself. He shifted his weight, swung his staff weapon and fired nonstop into his oncoming foe, covering as much of the field as possible alone.  
  
Teal’c would not surrender. He would not allow O'Neill to die alone. He stood over his friend and fired into the oncoming waves of Jaffa. They were well trained. They didn't hesitate. They just kept advancing, using their fallen as shields. In time, perhaps very soon, Teal'c knew, they would have adequate cover. Then, they would reach him and O'Neill.  
  
Teal'c felt something roll against his calf. It was O’Neill. He wasn’t dead.  
  
"Can you stand?" Teal'c asked without looking down.  
  
"Hell, no!" came a harsh reply, “Not with you standing on me, for cryin' out loud.”  
  
Teal'c smiled grimly and stepped to one side. O'Neill scrambled to his feet, seized a staff weapon, and stood back to the back with Teal’c. Now each could bring concentrated fire on a half-circle.  
  
"Can you fight?" Teal'c asked over his shoulder as he fired into the Jaffa ranks.  
  
"You tell me," O'Neill quipped. He cradled the staff weapon in his left arm, swept it and fired rapidly, taking down several Jaffa.  
  
"Apparently," Teal'c acknowledged, but he noted that O'Neill's right arm was wound tightly against his chest in the folds of his cloak.  
  
‘Broken,’ Teal’c decided.  
  
His thoughts were interrupted when O’Neill rasped over his shoulder, “They won't come for us, Teal'c.”  
  
O'Neill had read his friend's thoughts and wanted it clear that this was a fight to the death – their death.  
  
“Orders. My direct orders,” he explained between bursts. “The Yult obey without question. Kind of a nice change, actually.”  
  
Teal’c smiled and replied, “General Hammond would be envious.”  
  
Deep in the tunnels below Richelieu was in trouble. True to O’Neill’s claim, the Yult had obeyed the General’s standing orders, to protect the integrity of the tunnel system, no matter what.  
  
Unfortunately for the Tunnel Commander, he now had a new set of orders, delivered nose-to-nose by an infuriated Major Samantha Carter.  
  
“You left them?” she roared again, pounding her fist against her thigh in frustration. “Left them! On the surface! When you knew, knew, that the Goa’uld were coming in force. Of all the lame …”  
  
Carter bit off the rest when she saw the Richelieu’s pale face. She’d said enough, maybe too much. The man was mortified, furious and, if she didn’t blow it by yattering on, likely to move heaven and earth to help her save Jack and Teal’c. He looked ready to face hell’s fire.  
  
Carter took a deep breath and changed her strategy. ‘Step One, get support. Done. Step Two …intelligence.’  
  
“What’s your name?” she asked gently.  
  
The Yult jumped like he’d been struck. “Tunnel Commander Richelieu, Major,” he replied formally, as if he expected her to use the information against him.  
  
“Your first name?” she replied.  
  
“Richard. Rick,” he stammered.  
  
Carter plopped down on a crystal bench and put her head in her hands. “Rick,” she said. I owe you an apology. I’m sorry. You were following the General’s orders. I was wrong to bite your head off like that. Now, I’m changing those orders. Tunnel integrity is important, but Rick. If Teal’c and the General fall into Goa’uld hands, there is no telling how much damage it will do -- to your people, Richelieu, and mine. We have to get them back. I need your help to do it.”  
  
“Yes, Major,” Richelieu said somewhat less coolly. “What do you need?”  
  
“A fix on their precise location,” Carter replied. “Precise!”  
  
“I can take you right to it, but it will be crawling with Goa’uld,” Richelieu said.  
  
“Not,” Carter was thinking on her feet, “if we punch through about, oh say, fifteen meters out from that location as well, in all directions and open fire. We could catch them from behind, divert their attention and then hit the General’s location and pull them out. Right?”  
  
Richelieu blinked, stared at Sam like she’d pulled a rabbit out of thin air and said, “Right, Major. Right!”  
  
Sam turned to a Yult beside her. “Get organized. I need fifteen teams of at least five per squad. I need them at the mole site now!”  
  
The Yult scrambled off to pull together the teams and Sam followed Richelieu as he crab-walked to the ‘mole’ site. Sam knew they had only five or six moles. That meant the teams would have to hit the surface three per tunnel. That would leave one mole to bring in Teal’c and Jack, if they were still up there.  
  
She tracked progress in the tunnel system and, when all teams and tunnel captains verified they were in place, Sam gave the order.  
  
The moles burned their ways up through the rock and soil like a warm knife through butter. Sam’s mole was running slightly slower in order to burst through only after the Jaffa had turned to face the new threat that should appear behind them.  
  
“In three … two … one,” Sam counted. She heard explosions and the distance sound of blast weapons. Then, an instant later, the sound surged. The mole had penetrated the area where she prayed O’Neill and Teal’c were still holding out.  
  
Rick made a move to scramble to the surface, but Carter pulled him back.  
  
“Stay put,” she ordered. “You’ll be busy as hell erasing these tunnels if something goes wrong. I’ll do it.”  
  
She stepped up the wall and felt Richelieu grab her boot and boost her the last three feet to the tunnel opening.  
  
Sam scrambled up into a world of energy blasts and covered her head and rolled toward the two men standing at the center of it.  
  
The look of surprise and pure, unadulterated love on Jack’s face was worth the risk.  
  
“Way to go, Carter,” he cried, blasting the hell out of another onslaught of Jaffa.  
  
Sam dodged forward, calling, “Your ride’s here, fellas. This way!” She turned back toward the tunnel and almost stepped into a set of active rings.  
  
The metal loops had simply appeared before her. They’d materialized out of thin air, with a flash of light and a metallic shriek. Worse, they blocked her path to the tunnel entrance.  
  
Carter raised her zat, but before she could fire, O’Neill’s voice drawled. “Carter, I think you’d better save it for another day.”  
  
She turned and saw Teal’c on his knees with a staff weapon to the back of his skull. Jack was kneeling too, and cradling his right arm. The Jaffa behind him smiled and fired his zat, sending Jack sprawling.  
  
Carter winced and lowered her weapon. From behind her came the distorted voice of a Goa’uld.  
  
“Go ahead. Make my day,” the voice said mockingly. “I believe that is a Tauri phase. Is it not?”  
  
Carter turned, resolved to do something to distract the Jaffa from Jack. ‘A second shot kills,’ she thought as she turned.  
  
Then, she snorted and nearly laughed aloud. In their first hours together, Gorlagon had told her of an ‘over-the-top circus act’ and his solemn duty to ‘remove such evil from the universe.’ Sam had to agree when she saw the Goa’uld standing before her, exuding arrogance and self-assurance. This guy was both ‘over the top’ and truly evil, at least in the fashion sense of the word.  
  
“I am your God, Shu!” the Goa’uld reverberated grandly. It was meant as a threat, but Sam’s mouth quirked up in a smirk. Powerful, or not, he was just too silly.  
  
The Goa’uld might have been attractive, under his Las Vegas showgirl outfit. He was tall, over seven feet, and deeply muscled, with a thick mane of light blond hair and piercing green eyes. Muscles rippled noticeably under what could only be described as a neon blue latex body suit.  
  
On his head, however, was the most thoroughly absurd bonnet that Sam had ever seen. And she’d been to Mardis Gras and to Paris (once on a military exchange program for the Pentagon). Never, ever, ever had she seen such a silly hat!  
  
It was mostly made of feathers -- ostrich plumes, to be exact. At least seven fluffy white plumes stuck straight up into the night sky. Behind them, a wall of peacock feathers shimmered and winked. Long golden tendrils trailed down his temples from a hatband encrusted with royal blue sequins.  
  
‘Cher would love this guy,’ Sam thought. ‘Or hate him for stealing her act.’  
  
Shu stepped off the ring platform. “What have you to say to your Conqueror?” he demanded grandly, jabbing a finger in Sam’s astounded face. She lowered her head, considering how best to insult him without getting herself summarily executed. She raised her head, grinned sarcastically in her best imitation of Jack O’Neill and looked the man up and down.  
  
“Well, first, have you heard of Liberachi?” she smirked. When the Goa’uld didn’t react, she decided he hadn’t. So, she tried again. “And, second, I have to ask. Who the hell is your tailor, and why do you let him live?”  
  
Carter heard Teal’c snort in appreciation a split second before she felt every nerve in her body scream, ‘overload!’  
  
When Sam opened her eyes, she was flat on her back in a darkened holding cell. Dim light shone between the bars on the door and a tiny window about fifteen feet over her head. Thrumming under her butt told her she was on a ship, hopefully still in orbit around P3X-667.  
  
She sat up slowly. She knew from experience not to try to move quickly right after a blast from a zat.  
  
“Teal’c?” she hissed, “Jack?”  
  
There was no answer, but Sam’s breath caught in her throat as she heard faint, bone chilling screams. It was far away, somewhere down the hall. It was a man. She wanted to throw up. They were torturing someone. It had to be Teal’c or Jack.  
  
“That overdressed son-of-a-bitch,” she growled, pounding her fist into her thigh.  
  
Sam stood and rubbed her face briskly to quell the need to vomit. Everything hurt. ‘Well, yeah!’ she reminded herself. ‘That’s what happens when someone fries your central nervous system.’  
  
She leaned against the wall. It was hard to stand, but she slowly began to pace the short floor of the cell. Exercise dispelled the effects of a zat blast. Besides, she couldn’t just sit and listen to the screaming. It seemed to grow louder and more penetrating the longer she listened.  
  
Down the hall, at the source of the screams, Shu had been thoroughly enjoying himself. He hadn’t had so much fun in weeks. Teal’c was locked in heavy chains. The chains ran up through a ring in the wall. At the moment they were loose, but when he wanted to, Shu could pull them up snug and drag the victim up the wall until he was nearly standing.  
  
Shu wanted the traitor on his back at the moment. He twirled the prod playfully, then glanced at the other prisoner. When he was sure he was watching, Shu jabbed the prod into the Jaffa’s pouch.  
  
The reaction was excellent. The shova’s eyes snapped open, his mouth gaped and rays of golden energy shot forth as every muscle in the well-muscled body contracted violently.  
  
The old man hanging on the opposite wall screamed, thrashed against his own heavy chains and alternately called Shu every name in the book and begged him to stop. At the moment, he was begging.  
  
“Stop!” Jack roared.  
  
Shu held the prod for a moment, gazing at the old man. Shu saw his pupils were wide and black. The emotion was genuine fear. Excellent.  
  
“Stop! Please,” he rasped again.  
  
Shu smiled and pulled the prod away. The body went slack. He toyed with the power setting, turning it up another notch to where bones would crack and tendons would rip free from joints under the contractions.  
  
“You’re killing him!” Jack hissed, sagging against his chains. “Yes,” Shu sighed, “I am. Then, when he is dead, I shall amuse myself with the woman.”  
  
“Why?” Jack demanded. “What in god’s name can you gain by this?”  
  
“Gain? Why, nothing of significance, I suppose,” Shu replied. “Clearly, I will conquer the planet below in time. The Yult will get too hungry and weak to resist and I will wipe them out.”  
  
The Goa’uld stroked his chiseled chin thoughtfully and considered the question.  
  
“Gain?” he continued in a light conversational tone, as if he were considering what to order for lunch. “Well there is one thing, of course. I will gain pleasure. I will enjoy breaking you.”  
  
He turned, smiled and continued merrily, “I will tear out your heart. I will lay waste to your soul. I will crack your will, humble your conceit and ensure that you know every indignity imaginable for your vast insolence.”  
  
Shu bent and glared at O’Neill. The mocking tone vanished. His eyes were hot coals as he snarled. “You dared to provoke me? You challenged us? Now you will pay! I will exact the price from your friends and you will watch, unharmed.””  
  
Jack stared back in shock. His mouth opened, but cold terror gripped his heart. Words wouldn’t come. It was Iraq. Again. It was his fault. ‘Oh, god,’ he thought desperately. ‘Not again.’  
  
The prisoner did nothing, but stare. Bored, Shu turned away and jammed his prod into Teal’c’s abdomen again. The body jerked violently and Teal’c’s eyes and mouth shot open as light streamed out. Then he collapsed. Neither man made a sound.  
  
Frustrated, Shu kicked the unconscious Jaffa, flipping him onto his back.  
  
“If the host will not respond,” Shu snarled, glancing at O’Neill for a reaction, “perhaps the primta will have to do.” Then he rammed his fist into Teal’c’s bleeding pouch.  
  
Jack gaped and roared as the Goa’uld ripped Junior from Teal’c abdomen. There was a horrible sucking sound and then the thin, high-pitched screams of the symbiot.  
  
When Shu raised his bloody hand into the air and turned to face him, Jack saw Junior squirming and writhing in his fist.  
  
“You sick Son-of-a-Bitch!” O’Neill roared, “You’ll kill him!”  
  
Pleased with the effect, Shu smirked and stood. He gazed at the writhing snake in his fist.  
  
“Yes,” he replied calmly, “to punish you. He will die the worst death a Jaffa can know. That,” he leaned close to Jack, “is your punishment. You are unharmed. It was your mistake and the shova will pay.”  
  
“Take me!” Jack hissed.  
  
“Not until you’ve earned it,” Shu sneered. “If you wish me to punish you, you must ask. Beg! Weep for mercy! Crawl and grovel for my forgiveness. My benevolence. Convince me how much more pleasure your body will give me if I grant your wish to die in their place. Promise me satisfaction, joy, if I will only torture you, instead! Will you respond to me? Will your screams ring out sweetly? Tell me. Convince me. Perhaps, I will allow you to die without witnessing their final agony. Perhaps.”  
  
Shu gazed at Jack expectantly. “Well? Do you have something to say to me, General?”  
  
Jack knew he was waiting for him to offer … something. He tried to find words, but they stuck in his throat. He knew it was hopeless. The sadistic bastard would feed on his pleas. They would encourage him to prolong Teal’c’s inevitable death. A shrill roar sounded in Jack’s head. He couldn’t think through his rage. Only one word formed.  
  
“Please,” Jack hissed. “Please.”  
  
The word fell far short of the abject humiliation Shu required. It sounded, in fact, more like a death threat than the plea of a broken enemy.  
  
Shu bent lower and gazed into the man’s eyes. He could see that Jack would kill him, if Shu just stepped a bit closer. Shu smiled into those murderous eyes and stepped back. He was not quite as blonde as he appeared. Then, to Jack’s horror, Shu addressed his sister, who'd been dozing in the corner of the chamber.  
  
“Are you hungry, my dear?” Shu crooned.  
  
Tefnut’s green eyes opened. Her tail twitched and she watched the abomination in Shu’s left hand.  
  
Without warning, Shu tossed the symbiot into the air. The cat leapt and snagged it in mid-arc. It vanished with a snap of her jaws, before Jack could even flinch.  
  
Shu turned back to him, hoping for a response. Jack didn’t move. He bit his tongue, turned his face to stone, shut his eyes, clamped his jaw and tried not to think about Teal’c dying a few feet away. He tried to block out thoughts of Sam, and what would happen next.  
  
Shu waited, watching for any sign of an effect on his victim. Jack didn’t move. The Goa’uld grew angry. He poked Teal’c again with the prod. The battered Jaffa did not move or make a sound. Jack remained hunched against the wall.  
  
It was a bore.  
  
“The Jaffa will soon die,” Shu offered, glancing at Jack for a reaction. Getting none, he taunted. “The woman, however, is very much alive. She is beautiful, strong and young. Perhaps, I will not kill her after all. After I examine her, explore her physical attributes, I may allow her to live. She could prove an acceptable host for my honored wife and sister if Tefnut tires of her present form.”  
  
Jack heard the lioness purring. He listened to the electric hiss as Shu jabbed Teal’c once more. Getting no response, the Goa’uld swept out of the room. Tefnut padded out at his heels, leaving the two men alone.  
  
Jack waited, but there was no sign of Shu returning, at least not right away. He opened his eyes.  
  
“Teal’c,” he rasped. “Hey.”  
  
Teal’c lay still as death. Jack couldn’t tell if he was even breathing. The Jaffa was dying. Without Junior, he didn’t stand a chance. He slid toward Teal’c, but he couldn’t reach him. The chains were too short.  
  
Jack buried his head between his clenched fists and tried to think clearly. Rage and panic crawled up his throat. ‘It’s Iraq again. God, he’s killing them because of me.’  
  
He couldn’t find a way to save them.  
  
Sometime later, Jack tensed. They were coming. He could hear the sounds of marching Jaffa far down the hall. His heart turned to ice. He could hear Sam. She was cursing like a sailor, calling Shu every name in the book. A moment later the chamber door opened and Jaffa flung her into the darkened room.  
  
Jack heard her fall. She scrambled to her feet and peered into the darkened corners of the room. Her breath caught. She’d seen him, or Teal’c. An instant later she was beside him.  
  
“I’m okay,” he said as she touched his face. “Check on Teal’c.”  
  
Sam scrambled across the chamber. Jack heard the sound of chains as she turned the Jaffa on his back.  
  
“It’s bad,” she whispered to him. “Oh, God!”  
  
“He took Junior,” Jack explained. “Do what you can for him.”  
  
“Right,” Sam mumbled. She pulled off her t-shirt and placed it under Teal’c’s battered head. Jack could see her strong back muscles ripple in the dim light. Teal’c was already as good as dead and Sam would be next, unless he could somehow … Jack closed his eyes. He had to think. This was no time to lose it, but he was scared.  
  
He could feel the snake inside respond. Fear always agitated the parasite. ‘Iraq again,’ something echoed.  
  
It seemed like only minutes had passed when the door swung open again. Sam flinched, surprised by the suddenness of it. Jack’s heart stopped. This was it.  
  
Shu stepped through the door. Tefnut was at his heels.  
  
“Anything more to say to me, General?” Shu sniggered. His eyes were locked on Sam. He stared at her barely concealed chest and leered openly. “It is a pity to feed her to my lovely mate. Perhaps, Tefnut has tired of her present form. This one would make an exceptional partner.”  
  
Sam sat very still as he approached her. Shu bent and ran the back of his knuckle down from her earlobe to her bra cup. Then, after lingering a moment, he slipped the finger inside her bra. Sam’s neck muscles tensed, but she didn’t move.  
  
“No!” Jack barked. “Take … me! Please. There is no glory in hurting the weak. No pleasure if she can’t fight back. I can fight. I’m strong. I won’t give up. I swear it. You will never find a better ….” The words ran out as the Goa’uld’s hand slipped inside and cupped Sam’s breast. “A better …”  
  
Shu’s other hand touched Sam’s short-cropped hair. He ran his fingers through it and smiled. “A better victim, General? A better partner? Do you wish to pleasure me like a woman? What can you offer, an old man, that this young, strong female can’t do much, much better?” Shu straightened and dragged Sam to her feet.  
  
Jack shot back, “She’s easy. She’s weak, small. I’m … not. It will be easy to hurt her. Difficult with me. Painful. Isn’t that what you want? Pain?”  
  
Shu turned to consider the proposition, but he didn’t release Sam. “I shall have her first and then judge whether to give her to Tefnut as a host or as a meal. You will be next, General O’Neill. Then, I can fairly judge which pleases me better. Raping a beautiful young woman, or humiliating an overconfident old man.”  
  
Shu struck Sam hard across the face. She grunted and brought her knee up sharply into his groin. He’d expected it and tightened his grip on her breast. She screamed, pulled back, and struck again.  
  
With a rumble, Tefnut attacked. The cat struck Sam in the side and knocked her to the floor. Only Shu’s quick action saved her.  
  
“Patience!” he ordered as his sister’s jaws closed on Sam’s shoulder. “Soon, sister!” he promised. “Come.” Shu grabbed Sam by the upper arm and dragged her out of the room. The door slammed shut.  
  
Jack sat in the dark listening to Sam’s screams. She was close by. He heard her fall with a grunt. He heard the scrabbling of feet, the crashing of bodies and then awful silence.  
  
‘Iraq.’ The thought echoed. ‘It’s about you. He’s hurting her to break you. Take yourself out of the equation,’ Jack thought, ‘out of the picture. Out.’  
  
There was a way. Jack realized. He could watch and wait while Shu tortured his team to death before his eyes – or he could act. There was a way to save Teal’c and frustrate Shu’s plans. It might even save Sam. Sure, the Goa’uld might still kill her. He might even kill Teal’c, but he’d be less likely to torture them to death. There were no guarantees, but Jack had no other options.  
  
He turned his thoughts inward, concentrating on his snake. He always sensed its emotions, primitive, undeveloped, basic. At the moment, it was like the feeling of a lost child alone in the night.  
  
Jack gathered up all his fury, rage and fear and thrust it at the parasite. It recoiled. It tried to slip away from him, but he dug deep into that dark place, the blackest part of his darkest thoughts and memories. He found that place where he shoved everything cruel, excruciating and terrifying. He pulled all his rage, hate, pain and fear up into his conscious mind. He lived it all again. It was his only weapon against the Goa’uld inside him.  
  
The larva reacted. It writhed away, seeking refuge in oblivion, but Jack knew that trick. He pursued the creature, dragged it back to face all the things that he knew terrified it, because they terrified him. Sam’s screams fueled his strength. The snake fought back, furiously, at first. But in the battle of will against will, finally the snake lost.  
  
Slowly. Slowly, its grip weakened. Then it let go. Jack felt it stir. There was a sudden, sharp pain. He gagged as it entered his windpipe. It filled his throat. He couldn’t breathe. Then, something was in his mouth. His jaws opened and there was a weight on his chest; rapid movement across his belly and it was gone.  
  
After fifteen centuries, Jack O’Neill was free. He’d expelled the snake hoping it would seek the only other refuge available to it. Teal’c’s pouch.  
  
Sometime later the door opened again and Sam was flung into the cell. Shu didn’t bother to have her chained. She crawled slowly to Jack’s side. He lifted his arm and pulled her close.  
  
“I’m sorry, Sam,” he whispered.  
  
“I’ll live,” she lied through bloodied lips.  
  
“With any luck, you both will,” he said as she pulled him close. He felt her trembling.  
  
‘She’s in shock,’ he decided.  
  
“Why didn’t you fight it?” Sam mumbled, naming his worst fear.  
  
“Shu?” Jack asked, knowing she must blame him, knowing that she was right. He should have found a way.  
  
“No,” she mumbled, “the courts martial. You wanted to die.”  
  
It all was so long ago that Jack almost laughed. “They were threatening to drag you into it. It was part of the deal.”  
  
“Pull me into … what?” A moment passed before she realized what he meant.  
  
“To save my career?” Sam hissed. “You’re a macho fool, Jack O’Neill.”  
  
Jack tightened his grip on her and said, “I was a fool, Samantha. But I couldn’t let them hurt you like that, not if I could stop it.”  
  
She seemed to go to sleep then. Jack was bone tired. His whole body was trembling. He clamped his hands on the chains to keep himself awake. As he waited for the end, he watched them change. The aging was accelerating. He knew there wasn’t much time.  
  
“Teal’c,” he hissed softly. The Jaffa stirred.  
  
“O’Neill,” Teal’c groaned. “Are you well?”  
  
“No,” Jack admitted. “Tell me something. Is Junior there?”  
  
“I no longer possess a larval Goa’uld,” Teal’c murmured.  
  
“Check again,” Jack suggested softly. He closed his eyes. He could feel time running out.  
  
“I do not understand,” Teal’c gasped.  
  
Jack smiled. He had never heard Teal’c so surprised and rattled. It was almost worth it.  
  
“O’Neill,” Teal’c rasped in alarm, “What have you done?”  
  
Jack felt the wall tipping and thought, ‘He’s his rasty old self already. He’ll make it. Somehow. He’ll find a way. He’ll save Sam.’  
  
“O’Neill,” the voice barked again, “O’Neill,” but now it sounded far away.  
  
Jack slid sideways onto the floor. He felt the chain against his throat. He couldn’t breath. He was so tired that he didn’t care. All he wanted was to sleep. There was a rushing sound in his ears. He was sliding away into darkness. He wondered briefly about Hell, whether it was real.  
  
Then he heard a voice. It was so tender, so kind. The voice said to ‘just let go.’ It was the sweetest, most lovely voice. So, Jack turned from darkness toward radiant light and, moving toward the light, he let go.  
  
Sam woke at the sound of footsteps and the rattle of chains. She slid up, pressing her back against the wall as the tromping of several sets of metal clad Jaffa stopped. There was an unpleasant mustiness in the air. A deep rumble at the door filled in the missing blanks. Sam’s hackles rose. “Tefnut, to be precise,” she murmured as the door swung open with a clang.  
  
She could see Teal’c across the room. The lioness approached the still form. She was purring loudly and licking something, Sam saw. With a stomach-turning jolt, Sam realized it was blood -- Teal’c’s blood. It had pooled beside him. Tefnut was lapping it up like milk.  
  
Sam eyed the lioness warily and scrambled across the floor to Teal’c. “Hey!” she said eagerly, starting to unwind the chains. “You okay?” She knew, of course, that he couldn’t be okay. The blood had come from somewhere, but the Team had an unspoken rule about understating certain things, especially bad things.  
  
Teal’c groaned softly and tried to lift his head. “Major Carter,” he said softly. “I am sorry.”  
  
“Sorry?” Sam asked, surprised. It wasn’t like Teal’c to apologize without good reason. “For what?”  
  
Then Sam saw the look on his face. Jack was gone.  
  
“Did they take him?” Sam asked. She didn’t remember it.  
  
“No,” Teal’c replied, glancing at his pouch. “He saved me, Major, at the cost of his own life. Know this: O’Neill died free.”  
  
ΩΩΩ  
  
Deep in the Yult tunnels, Daniel hugged himself and huddled against a wall, trying to hide his fear. The tunnels shook violently. Up and down the tunnel system the walls and roofs were shattering. The Goa’uld were hitting them with naquida-enhanced explosives.  
  
The tunnel had been under fire again. It had lasted for a very long time, ever since Tunnel Commander Richelieu had found him and told him that, unfortunately, Sam’s rescue plan had failed.  
  
Instead of rescuing Teal’c and ‘the General’, Richelieu reported that Sam had been captured. It was likely that the rest of SG-1 were dead. If they were still alive, the Yult had other, more immediate concerns than another rescue attempt.  
  
Another violent burst of energy weapons thundered through the tunnels. Daniel covered his head as crystals crashed to the floor. ‘If only I’d …’ he didn’t finish the thought. Daniel had no idea what he could have done. ‘If only,’ he thought again as the walls rocked and threatened to buckle, ‘if only.’  
  
The walls around him rumbled and shook. Daniel huddled against the walls as the tunnel roof collapsed. Then the blasts moved slowly on again. They’d passed over his section of tunnel repeatedly in the past few hours. They’d be back, he had no doubt.  
  
Silence fell and Daniel tried to quiet his shattered heart, to let himself sleep in the dark, airless space. Sleep was coming. Then he felt a light tickle against his neck.  
  
Daniel’s eyes flew open. Had he been dreaming? No. He felt it again. In the musty, unventilated tunnel there could be no drafts. Still, something brushed his cheek, like the wings of a butterfly.  
  
Daniel sat up, rubbed his eyes on the heel of his hand and for no reason he could ever explain said, “Jack?”  
  
There was no reply. What happened next said it all. Daniel felt it begin deep in the planet. There was a powerful shuddering. It was massive, like the planet was tearing itself apart.  
  
Daniel had just enough time to grab his glasses. Then the tunnel filled with blinding light, dust and a fierce ripping sound, like tearing cloth. It was rock shearing against rock as an unimaginable force thrust the tunnel upward toward the surface.  
  
Daniel never closed his eyes. He was terrified, yet somehow he knew this was a good thing. Moses must have felt like this when he received the tablets from the hand of God.  
  
The tunnel blossomed forth, spilling Daniel and hundreds of other awestruck tunnel-dwellers out onto the surface. The sky was filled with light. Clouds of purple, rose and gold streamed across the heavens, as the world exploded.  
  
Daniel was on his knees, gazing up open mouthed. He could actually see the enemy fleet. In ones and twos, the Goa'uld ships careened down into the planet, crashed and flew to pieces. Those that didn’t crash burst apart far overhead. They made puffs of red and black as some unnamed force tore into them. Blooms of red and gold fire filled the sky.  
  
Then, the clouds sucked away and it was, suddenly, a peaceful, sunny day under placid blue skies. As far as Daniel could see, people were standing, staring about at the wreckage. Trails of smoke appeared where wrecked ships still smoldered.  
  
Daniel started when Sam touched his sleeve.  
  
“Daniel?” she asked. “What happened?”  
  
She and Teal’c were staring at him, waiting for an answer, but he had no answers. All he knew was that they were alive somehow. They were safe. Everything was fine. Jack had seen to it.  
  
ΩΩΩ  
  
Jack shivered in agony. A powerful beam probed his mind. Glowing eyes held him in a grip of steel.  
  
‘Tell me of the Astraportal,’ the eyes commanded. ‘Tell me of Sam. Where is he? Where is your team!’  
  
“No!” he fought back. He didn’t know how they’d been captured. He didn’t know who was torturing him, but if Sam, or the team, were in danger he’d be damned if he’d give them up. “Go to hell!” he gasped.  
  
Another wave of pain coursed through him. The eyes burned brighter. ‘Tell me, or you will die,’ the voice reverberated inside his head.  
  
“Not… fucking …likely!” he roared back. The eyes punished him with another, even more violent, jolt of fire through his veins. As shock waves tore at him, Jack set his will against the eyes. When the punishment overwhelmed him, O’Neill fell toward merciful oblivion. The terrible eyes drifted away. As their light faded, however, there was a gentle voice.  
  
‘Jack?’ it called. ‘Jack? I’m lost. I can’t find the gate. Where is the gate, Jack? Where is it? Help me, please, help me! Save me, Jack! Tell me where to go! Help me go home!’  
  
It was a woman’s voice. O’Neill tried to answer her. He searched his memory for the location of the gate on this world, but he didn’t remember. ‘Where is the Gate?’ he searched his memory wildly as the voice pleaded. ‘Christ!’ he realized. ‘I don’t remember the mission. I don’t even know what planet we’re on!’  
  
“Sam!” he muttered back, but she didn’t answer. Her voice just kept after him, pleading and pushing for information on the Gate location. Suddenly, Jack knew something was wrong. It wasn’t Sam. Sam Carter had never begged in her life. Besides, if anyone knew precisely where they were at all times it was Sam. The voice wasn’t hers, he realized. It was a trick.  
  
He remembered, then. ‘There is no gate. I’m lost, not Sam, not the team. The Yult have me, just me. How’d they learn about the team? Did I tell them? Aw, crap! Did I tell them about the Gate?’  
  
Jack realized with a rush of shame that he must have told them. No one else knew these things. Now, it was painfully clear, they were grilling him to get the rest of the story.  
  
With a surge of misery, he remembered the rest of it. He’d been lost. The Gate had thrown him back in time. Then, he’d gone looking for the damned Yult for help, but it was turning out all wrong.  
  
They were not going to help him -- far from it. Someone had beaten the crap out of him. Someone was interrogating him about the Stargate and the Team.  
  
He’d made a terrible mistake. He should have listened to Sam, accepted his fate and laid low. He should have forced himself to live out his existence without changing anything.  
  
Instead, he’d gone looking for help. He’d found the Yult all right, but they were ruthless bastards. They’d saved his life, but now they were turning him inside out, wringing him out like a dishrag.  
  
The dishrag analogy fit, too well. Jack was wrung out, soaked with sickly cold sweat and wracked with chills and flashes of fiery heat. He was losing it, he realized, and very soon he’d tell them something, anything, if they kept at him.  
  
Every man has limits and Jack knew he was at the edge. He felt fear rising, and panic, but he fought them back. He told himself that, no matter what, he would not say anything more about the Stargate. He wouldn’t say where he’d actually come from. He wouldn’t give a hint that he was a time traveler.  
  
If the Yult realized time travel was possible, they’d change his future without a qualm. Jack knew then that he’d never go home.  
  
A crack opened deep inside. Something wrenched apart and Jack couldn’t stop it.  
  
‘Sam,’ he saw her on the beach. The image was so clear. She waved, but then turned away. An old man was beside her.  
  
‘This isn’t right,’ Jack told himself. He knew this wasn’t how it had happened, but he watched in morbid fascination as she wrapped an arm languidly across the other man’s chest.  
  
Then Jack saw his face. It was his own face. It was Gorlagon. His eyes glowed softly as he wrapped Sam in his arms and lowered his lips to hers.  
  
The crack became a gaping hole and the hole became a void. Jack was falling and he couldn’t stop the blackness from taking him down.  
  
Merlyn paused and stretched. Then she removed the hand device. She was spent. She hadn’t expected the monk to fight. No man of this planet had ever resisted her charms, until now.  
  
She had planned to rip the truth out of him in minutes. Instead, the interrogation lasted hours, pausing only for treatments to keep him alive. In the end, she gave up without answers. The monk might as well have died, for all she’d learned from him.  
  
Merlyn started at a knock on the thick cellar door. It was very late. No one should be awake. Then she heard Asatur’s voice.  
  
“Mother?” he said. “May I enter?”  
  
Merlyn cast a disgusted look at the deathly face of the monk. ‘This is not working,’ she thought. ‘Perhaps, after all, a subtler approach is required.’  
  
“Yes, come in,” she called back as she shot the bolt. The door creaked open and Asatur stepped through the door into the small subterranean cell.  
  
“It’s late,” she continued.  
  
“I was concerned,” he explained. “How does he fare?”  
  
“I am healing his body, but his soul is beyond my reach.” Merlyn lied. “He is a man, I sense, who wishes to escape this life. I have examined his heart and mind. He has deep secrets. He holds them close. They are difficult to understand. One thing, however, he cannot hide. A woman betrayed him. He loved her deeply and she sent him away. Now, she is dead to him and I fear, he may not survive the loss.”  
  
She slipped into a chair and waited while her half-truths filtered into her kindly son’s brain. He responded predictably.  
  
“I swore to save him, Mother. May I care for him? I do not have your powers, but perhaps, with his past, it is difficult for him to be with …” he glanced shyly at her, “such a lovely woman. He might fare better in the company of men.”  
  
Merlyn smiled as if considering his proposal. Then she nodded and replied, “Perhaps that would be best.”  
  
Arthur claimed O’Neill the next morning. The man was very ill, but the sarcophagus had saved his life. The king’s men gently removed him from the Church cellar and carried him up into the light where a cart waited to trundle him off to Camelot.  
  
Merlyn watched them depart. Then she returned to her rooms to make her own plans to follow. She calculated that she should reach Camelot in slightly more than a week. That would allow her son time to gain the monk’s trust.  
  
Far overhead, Thor jumped as a light blinked on his control panel. He shifted three stones very quickly and, to his delight, the face of Jack O’Neill filled the ship’s screen.  
  
The subject was pale and gaunt, but alive. Thor watched in awful fascination as the humans dragged him on a litter through a forest. In his condition, Thor wondered how the man survived it.  
  
Thor fought back the urge to claim him. Too many people were watching. A sudden rising of the subject would surely fire hysteria and spawn still more superstition on the benighted planet. Thor restrained himself and watched.  
  
The caravan made its painfully slow way through dense forest. After four days, it reached a small, formidable fortress.  
  
They had arrived at their destination, Thor decided. The pack animals were unpacked. The humans dispersed. The subject was moved from his litter to a tower.  
  
Thor monitored the subject’s life signs. They were still weak, but seemed to grow stronger day by day. ‘Amazing,’ the Asguard thought. ‘These humans are inferior beings, yet they do not die easily.’  
  
The subject did not move, Thor noted. He did not speak or seem aware that the other human, known as Arthur or Asatur, spent long hours at his side.  
  
Thor’s attention drifted. He was examining the runes, fascinated by them, when he heard someone screaming his name. He spun around.  
  
The screen showed the subject being attacked by other humans. The woman, called Merlyn, was barking orders. Her minions were doing their best to obey, but it was difficult.  
  
The subject, the apparent focus of her shrill demands, was not cooperating. The others were holding him down, trying to tie his wrists and ankles to a low table and he was resisting.  
  
The subject had roared back that Merlyn could ‘go to hell.’ Thor discerned that the subject was refusing to cooperate, absolutely.  
  
ΩΩΩ  
  
Jack was losing the battle. He was weak, too weak to put up a real fight, but he was fighting anyway, for his future, for the very existence of everything he’d known and loved.  
  
He wasn’t going down easily. Merlyn had ordered him to tell her everything about the ‘Astraportal.’ He’d declined.  
  
Merlyn leaned close. Jack felt her breath on his cheek as she hissed, “Then you will die, monk, in terrible pain. Tie him to the table!”  
  
Jack gritted his teeth as they dragged him across the room. He willed himself to stay conscious. If he lost it, he might tell her what she wanted to know. She had the tools to empty him like a sack, just like she had in Cannon City. His only chance, he realized, was to goad her into overplaying her hand.  
  
“I won’t tell you a damned thing,” he spat, hoping to piss her off. It worked better than expected. She raised her hand. It held a ribbon device.  
  
“Very well,” she cried, activating the hand-device.  
  
The beam caught him. Jack felt it searing into his brain. It hurt like hell, but he told himself not to fight. This is the best way, he thought fiercely. ‘Just let go,’ he told himself.  
  
“Let go,” he said.  
  
Suddenly, the beam stopped.  
  
“What did you say, monk?” Merlyn demanded. “You wish to die?”  
  
Jack said nothing, but his heart stopped. Had he said it aloud? With his brains scrambling, he couldn’t be sure. Then, he had his answer.  
  
“If death is what you wish, ungrateful monk,” Merlyn snarled, “then that is what I shall deny you! I hereby consign you to life everlasting!”  
  
Jack fought like a wild man as strong hands pressed him against the table. In another moment, his arms were bent back and lashed to the wooden legs. Ropes encircled his chest and throat. He couldn’t move, not an inch.  
  
Merlyn stood over him, smiling. Her golden eyes shimmered. They burned in his brain like acid and, suddenly, Jack remembered other eyes, shiny, almond-shaped, and black as sin.  
  
“You are strong, resolute,” Merlyn said leaning closer, “and now you are going to be mine forevermore, monk!” She placed her mouth on Jack’s lips.  
  
Thor watched. The man was losing his fight. Suddenly, the woman bounded back, with a sharp curse. She held her hand to her face. When she took it away, Thor saw that her lip was bloody. The subject had apparently bit her.  
  
Thor smiled. This man was capable. Not overly intelligent, but strong willed and resourceful. The Yult bent low again. Thor saw terror in the subject’s contorted face. The man was screaming.  
  
To his amazement, Thor heard his name. The subject was calling out to him.  
  
“Thor, goddammit!” the subject roared in perfect Latin. “If you are up there, you skinny-assed son-of-a-bitch, you owe me. You hear me, Thor? You owe me! I saved your scrawny gray butt more than once. I saved your entire ungrateful race of bobble-headed brainiacs! Me! So, goddammit, Thor you owe me! Get this bitch of a snake-head off me, before we both regret it!”  
  
Thor blinked. How could the subject possibly know him? Could the subject understand that he might, indeed, be the Asguard’s last great hope for salvation?  
  
Thor hesitated. The woman bent lower. The subject’s muffled screams filled the ship.  
  
Jack closed his eyes and wrenched his head away again, but M pressed her mouth against his lips. She pushed her tongue into his mouth.  
  
‘Oh, Christ,’ Jack realized, ‘that’s not her tongue!’  
  
He bit down, but something tough and muscular pushed his mouth open, wider. It was too strong. A horrible awareness washed over Jack as his jaws parted. It slithered between his teeth. It was obscene. It was in his throat. He gagged and tried to close his jaws or pull away, but it was too strong. It was forcing its way inside. He tried to wrench away. He tried to scream, but it was irresistible. There was no escape.  
  
Thor watched the subject. As he fought, his legs jerked. He would lose. That was clear.  
  
The Asguard hesitated for another moment. Suddenly, Thor realized why the subject was so mysterious – he hadn’t saved the Asguard. Not yet, but someday he would. Someday!  
  
Thor gasped, “I must save him.” He turned and shifted the stones on his control panel. The screen showed a bright flash of light on the table far below.  
  
An instant later, the subject materialized on the floor, snarling, cursing one minute and the next, spitting blood and jabbering in his unintelligible tongue.  
  
ΩΩΩ  
  
The klaxons brought everyone in the SGC to their feet. It was well past midnight and no SG teams were due back at such an ungodly hour.  
  
General Hammond, who’d been working late and decided to bunk at the Mountain rather than drive home, ran out of his quarters still buckling his belt.  
  
He reached the control room before the fourth chevron had locked.  
  
“What is it Sergeant?” Hammond demanded.  
  
“Unidentified traveler, Sir,” Walter replied. “I’ve tried to shut it down or close the iris, but it’s not working.”  
  
Hammond frowned as Major Carter slid into the seat beside the Sergeant. He didn’t like the look in her eyes, not one bit. Carter had been working too many hours to suit Hammond. He’d mentioned it to Doctor Fraiser. Instead of gaining her support in dealing with Carter, the Doctor had surprised General with a lecture on the therapeutic benefits of work in female military personnel subjected to rape or sexual assault in combat and POW situations.  
  
Hammond had blushed mightily at the mention of rape. The Air Force had euphemisms that Doctor Fraiser chose to disregard. Sometimes, Hammond realized, his age and gender just got the better of him. Hammond wanted to avoid pawing through the details of what Shu had done to Jacob’s daughter. He didn’t fully understand how work could help, but he was loath to pick through the details of Carter’s torture and abuse at the hands of Shu, especially with a woman, doctor or not.  
  
So Hammond had accepted Fraiser’s lecture in silence and buried his suspicions that he was being maneuvered by a well-organized female conspiracy within his ranks. He’d let Fraiser have her way and gave Carter the personal space to work through her problems in her own way.  
  
Now, Hammond felt a slow burn crawl up his neck as he watched Carter tap furiously at the keyboard. The physical injuries had healed, but she’d been through hell emotionally. He noted the strain on her once-young face. The extra hours were taking a heavy toll as she took on every hour of extra duty, refused to mourn Jack’s death, and buried herself in the SGC, on-duty and off-duty, just in case O’Neill stepped through the Gate.  
  
Her stubborn refusal to mourn O’Neill’s loss had no upside. Perhaps the Doctor was right, but Hammond could not shake the feeling that Carter could never completely recover, at least not until she faced what had happened and moved on. Non-stop work was an obvious attempt to be present when O’Neill suddenly reappeared. Hammond knew it was futile. He wasn’t coming back and Hammond decided it was well past time to make Carter face facts. He’d played out all the rope he would on this matter. It was time to look out for the Major, since she wasn’t going to do it herself. Hammond decided to send her straight home with orders to stay there until recalled by him personally, Doctor’s orders be damned.  
  
The iris began to close, as Hammond expected with Carter at the controls. Abruptly, however, the iris reversed itself. Hammond’s complete attention was locked on the Gate. He leaned toward the mike and ordered troops into the gate room. “Prepare to repel hostiles,” his voice boomed through the SGC PA system.  
  
Even before the echo of his order died, the Gate’s event horizon erupted. A tumultuous ‘swoosh’ arched into the Gate Room. Then it stabilized. Carter was still tapping frenetically, but the iris remained wide open.  
  
Troops were poised and ready to fire when, to Hammond’s shock and delight, Gorlagon stepped through the Gate.  
  
“Stand down!” Hammond ordered and the troops lowered their weapons as the old man sauntered down the ramp, his cloak swishing jauntily.  
  
Hammond glanced at Major Carter. Her mouth was agape. She was deathly pale and her fingers had stopped, frozen in mid-stroke over the keyboard. George wondered if she was glad it was Gorlagon, glad at least that he wasn’t dead, too. Or, was she just dismayed that the incoming traveler wasn’t General Jack O’Neill.  
  
‘Both probably,’ Hammond thought as he gave her tense shoulder a quick squeeze. “Come on, Major,” he ordered and she followed him down to greet the Yult.  
  
As Hammond turned the corner into the gate room, Gorlagon flung back his hood. George gasped. The face was tired and thin, but it was not old. At least, it wasn’t old enough.  
  
He heard Carter squeal and she bolted past him, into the man’s arms.  
  
“Jack!” she cried. “Oh, thank god!”  
  
Hammond stared for a moment as Carter almost bowled O’Neill over. Then, George averted his eyes as O’Neill responded by wrapping her in his arms and lifting her off her booted feet. The cloak hid some aspects of the embrace, but there was not enough yardage to camouflage the intimacy of the moment.  
  
Blushing, Hammond snuck a last peek and smiled, despite himself. Neither officer personified military professionalism at that moment, but he was damned glad to witness the shattering of decorum.  
  
The welcome lasted long enough for Hammond to silently shoo the gaping young troopers out of the gate room and depart himself, closing the Gate Room door behind him.  
  
As Hammond lowered the blast shields over the Gate Room windows, Sam realized she was making a spectacle of herself. She pulled back briefly.  
  
“It is you?” she whispered. “Really you, Jack?”  
  
“You have to ask, Major?” Jack replied, planting a long, hungry kiss on her lips. “You mean that you don’t recognize me? Or,” his eyes twinkled wickedly as he gazed into her eyes, “do I have an evil twin?”  
  
  
 _ **Chapter 3. Where the Heart Is  
**_  
  
“Thor didn’t have any idea who I was!” Jack explained, as he toyed with a pencil.  
  
Scrubbed, shaved and sporting a very short haircut, even by military standards, O’Neill looked almost himself. Doctor Frazier gave him a clean bill of health, despite lingering malnutrition, a raging case of body lice that she’d promised to keep secret and the need for some dental work in the near future.  
  
Still, everyone in the conference room kept staring at the man. It was like he’d actually risen from the dead. Yet, here he sat, fiddling with the nub of a pencil and trying to explain how he got home.  
  
“At first, he couldn’t understand me,” Jack continued. “I guess it was so far in the past that he hadn’t learned to speak English.”  
  
“English didn’t exist yet, Jack,” Daniel interjected.  
  
Jack blinked and said, “Oh, yeah, right. Anyway, I learned enough Latin so that, the second time he brought me onto his ship, we could communicate. Eventually he understood that I’d been sent back accidentally. He had a small pod on board. He … I went…”  
  
Jack rubbed his bristly hair in frustration and glared at Carter. “It’s hard to explain, Carter. I don’t really get a lot of this Physics stuff.” He sighed and clamped his eyes tightly shut for a moment before he continued.  
  
“I think he said something about the Speed of Light and … Hell, I trusted him. So, I got into the thing. He said he’d shoot it into the sun, to gain speed. So, I got in and then …,” Jack shrugged slightly, “Nothing. The next thing I knew, Thor brought me back aboard his ship. Same old Thor, same old ship, but he was acting very … strange. Ya’ know how the Asguard always seem sort of … unemotional. He wasn’t. In fact, he seemed pretty wound up for a higher being. Anyway, after he settled down, Thor confirmed that it had worked. It wasn’t … then … anymore. It was, ah is, now.”  
  
O’Neill glanced around the table. Everyone was staring at him with a mixture of confusion and joy. Jack sighed and plunged on.  
  
“Thor explained that he’d given himself the assignment to pick me up when I arrived, in the future, er … I mean now, I guess. Anyway, it worked. So, he just teleported me to the nearest world with a gate and sent me through.”  
  
“Speed of light,” Sam murmured, then her face brightened. “Of course, Einstein’s theory of relativity predicts that a hypothetical passenger on a vessel that travels in excess of the speed of light will experience time distortion relative to the passage of time on Earth. Time should pass much more quickly for the passenger, relative to our time here on Earth. Could that have been what he did, Sir?”  
  
Jack shook his head slightly and replied, “I don’t know how long I was in the pod, Carter. I don’t know what he was thinking exactly. So, basically, I have no clue what he did. Sorry.”  
  
“But somehow, Thor helped you time-travel, General O’Neill,” Sam said. “But, I don’t see why.”  
  
Jack met her eyes, surprised. “Well, we are friends, Carter,” he said slowly.  
  
Carter shook her head. “No,” she interrupted, “not then. Not at first. Still, he believed you, when you said you were a time traveler and needed to get home. Why? I just don’t get it.”  
  
Jack flipped the pencil over, tapped it on the table, eraser end first and grimaced. Sometimes Carter’s superior intellect was a major pain in the butt. He had hoped to leave out the next tidbit, but she had him cornered. He might twist and turn for a while, but she’d stay with it, like a dog on a bone, until he confessed.  
  
Jack rubbed his brow, feeling the start of a headache. “Well, he didn’t, Sam. Not at first.”  
  
“How’d you convince him?” Sam asked. Her blue eyes darkened a shade and something in her tone warned everyone that this was very serious.  
  
“I told him…” Jack paused and bit his lip. “About finding the repository of the Ancients.”  
  
“Why!” Daniel interrupted. “What would make you choose that, of all things?”  
  
“I didn’t choose it Daniel,” Jack snapped back. “He … asked.”  
  
“Asked?” Sam demanded. “Why would he ask? You said that he didn’t even speak English!”  
  
“Yeah, well, he did. He asked and he said it was very … important,” Jack said quietly.  
  
Jack stopped and rubbed his hands through his short gray hair,pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. Then he raised his eyes and locked Carter’s blue gaze.

“Did I screw up, Major?” he asked earnestly.  
  
Sam blinked in surprise. This was not at all like the Jack O’Neill she’d known. The brash, abrasive Colonel was now, inexplicably, a quiet, reserved General O’Neill. And _General_ O’Neill was asking for her professional assessment of the damage he might have done.  
  
“There’s no way to know, Sir.” Carter replied slowly. “If you changed the future by telling the Asguard about the Ancients, then … we have all changed, as well. Sir, you are the only one capable of knowing whether this timeline, our present, is different from what you recall.”  
  
Sam waited while Jack examined the pencil for a long moment.  
  
“Is it different, Jack?” General Hammond finally asked gently.  
  
O’Neill raised his eyes, gazed around the table in silence. Sam gazed back at him. Her letter had said she was pregnant, but there’d been no mention of a baby, no mention of a pregnancy. He couldn’t ask her about it without letting her know what she’d lost in the other timeline. He was profoundly sad and didn’t want her to share that sorrow.  
  
Sam still loved him. Janet had warned him that they’d need to talk and work through what had happened to Sam on Shu’s ship. Jack wondered if he could bring himself to tell her about Iraq. Maybe. He felt certain she still wanted marriage. There was time for kids. They were lucky and there was time.  
  
Jack looked at Daniel and Teal’c. They were watching him, expectantly. Teal’c was alive. His larval Goa'uld was in place. Daniel was alive and, they told him, the Yult had offered to help the SGC hunt down their renegade brethren on Earth.  
  
Jack rubbed his eyes and sighed. He was with his team. Earth was safe. Some unknown power had saved them and obliterated the largest fleet of Goa’uld ever formed.  
  
“It is _different_ , General Hammond,” Jack answered softly. “I think it’s … better.”  
  
"I still don't understand why you'd tell Thor about the Ancients," Daniel persisted. "What could possibly be worth the risk?"  
  
“I had to tell him," Jack repeated. "He was going to wipe out the Yult. He thought they were Goa’uld and he was going to wipe them out. It would have erased them from our history, Daniel. I didn’t know what else to do, so I told him some … details.   
About Kennedy. About the Space Race. Stuff that he’d understand _couldn’t_ be changed.”  
  
"Space Race?" General Hammond repeated, frowning.  
  
"Kennedy?" Sam echoed.  
  
"You know," Jack said, his guts turning to ice, "The _First Man on the Moon!_ The _35th President_ of the United States ... _Ask not what your country can do for you ...."_  
  
General Hammond rose slightly in his chair and grasped Jack's forearm firmly.  
  
"Take it easy, Jack. It's clear to me that you've had a rough time of it," he said kindly, "Why don't we get you back to the infirmary so Doctor Fraiser can give you a thorough exam."  
  
"Kennedy!" Jack shouted leaping to his feet. "President John ... Fitzgerald ... Kennedy! He was _shot_ in Dallas Texas! He was a war hero! He started the _Moon Race!"_  
  
As General Hammond led O'Neill from the briefing room, Daniel glanced at Sam and raised his eyebrows.  
  
"Modern history isn't my exactly thing," Daniel said slowly, "but last I heard the 35th President of the United States was Martin Luther King, Jr."  
  
Sam rolled her eyes and replied, "Yeah. Houston .... we have a problem."  


FIN


End file.
